‘Marshal Breton!’ came another shout.
As if in a daze Marshal Breton turned to see Meredith working his way towards them.
‘We’ve received another message.’
‘From where?’ asked Dominic and even his voice was strained.
‘It’s Amboss,’ said Meredith. ‘But there’s not one but three demons converging on the city.’
Marshal Breton whirled to face Falco. It seemed as if he were about to point a finger, but instead he balled his hand into a fist and closed his eyes, screwing up his face at the folly of allowing himself to follow the advice of this foolish young man.
‘How long?’ he asked Meredith through gritted teeth.
‘Five hours... maybe six.’
Marshal Breton angled his head towards Dominic.
‘Can you do it?’ he asked. ‘Can you get back in time?’
‘Yes,’ said Dominic. ‘But I cannot defend against three demons. Not if they all attack at the same time.’
‘I will come with you,’ said the Acheronian battle mage. ‘It would be an honour to fight beside you.’
‘Then go,’ said Marshal Breton. ‘We shall be with you just as soon as we are able.’
With a quick bow, Dominic and the Acheronian hurried back to their dragons as Marshal Breton turned on Falco.
‘And why are you still here?’ he spat with open scorn. ‘Go with your betters and see if you can repair some of the damage that you have caused.’
Falco said nothing. As Marshal Breton began to issue new orders to the army he made his way towards Sidian.
‘Turn about!’ cried Marshal Breton, whirling his hand in the air. ‘We return to Amboss with all possible speed.’
Dazed by the storm of ill fortune that seemed to have descended upon them the army struggled to carry out his orders. But slowly the meadow stirred into action as the army reoriented itself to begin the march back to Amboss.
Over to one side Malaki, Bryna and Huthgarl watched as Falco emerged from the knights and commanders around Marshal Breton and walked towards Sidian. By now Dominic and the Acheronian battle mage were just dark shapes receding into the clouds, whereas Falco seemed slow and hesitant. He climbed onto Sidian’s back and together they rose into the sky, but instead of flying north towards Amboss they flew just a hundred yards up the wide path leading into the hills.
At first no one seemed to notice, but then the commanders around Marshal Breton saw where Falco had landed and gestured in his direction. Marshal Breton’s brow lowered with fury and his face flushed as he forged his way to the edge of the army.
‘Where are you going?’ he called out. ‘Or are you so arrogant and deranged that you would face the Marchio Dolor on your own?’
Falco said nothing, but neither did he move. Through the T-shaped visor of his helm he looked down at Marshal Breton. His heart screamed at the thought of the Queen’s death, but now was not the time to be laid low by grief. He could not explain the force of his conviction. All he knew was that the Marchio Dolor must be opposed.
The entire army became still as they looked at the battle mage and the black dragon standing alone on the path. They seemed to be caught in a moment of madness, but then a mounted figure moved out from the ranks of the Adamanti.
Gone was the Queen’s seal and the surcoat of blue with its horse-head motif. Sir William Chevalier now wore the black and silver-white of the Knights Adamant. Without any concession to Marshal Breton he rode up the slope and stopped beside Falco and Sidian.
Seconds passed and Marshal Breton gawped at the ridiculous scene, but then the entire squadron of the Adamanti moved to follow their captain’s lead. They had covered barely half the distance before Malaki, Bryna and Huthgarl rode over to join them, the Dalwhinnies and then the entire body of the Irregulars swinging round to align themselves with the direction in which Falco would lead them. Even the Exiles followed their lead with Alex Klingemann at their head.
‘What madness is this?’ cried Marshal Breton as General Renucci called the soldiers of the Fourth Army to do the same. ‘We must retreat to Amboss!’ he cried. ‘It would be suicide to continue on.’
But now the Illician commanders began to order their troops in the same manner. Where the Adamanti led, they would follow, especially if there was even the slightest chance that Prince Ernest and some of his army might still be alive.
Marshal Breton looked for support from his own Clemoncéan forces but then the shadow of a mounted knight fell across him and he looked up into the face of Lord Cabal.
‘I was shamed once before by men of greater courage,’ said the Lord Commander, looking up at Malaki. ‘I will not be shamed again.’ With that he placed his own red-cheeked great-helm upon his head and led the Knights of Wrath to join their Illician brothers on the path.
For a moment Marshal Breton raged against this display of mass insurrection, but then the news from the Acheronian battle mage came back to him and all his indignation was crushed by an overwhelming sense of despair.
The Queen was dead.
All along the front the Possessed were breaking through. For more than a decade he had fought to keep the enemy at bay, but it had all been for nought. How many other armies and cities would crumble once they learned the news of Queen Catherine’s death? Behind him he heard his own Fifth Army shifting and jostling as they too adjusted their position to follow Falco’s lead and he no longer had the heart to oppose them.
All the world was going to hell and Marshal Breton no longer believed that it could be saved, and so he did as simple soldiers have always done since the demons of the Possessed first robbed them of their faith. He placed his trust in a battle mage.
Falco’s heart might have been moved by this overwhelming show of support but he had passed beyond the reach of such emotions. It was just too painful to bear the grief of all those that they had lost. In his mind he saw an image of the Queen as they had first seen her in the orchards of Wrath, a wild, dark haired woman, sweating and breathless as she struggled to improve her skill with sword and shield, and then transformed into a vision of regal beauty on the western terrace of the palace.
‘And why have you come to Wrath, Master Danté?’
Behind the armoured visage of his helm Falco wept. Through his tears he looked down at the army that was prepared to follow him and for a moment he wondered if he truly had the courage to lead them to their doom. But then the emissary stirred beside him and turned his smoke grey Percheron up the slope. Falco might not have the courage to lead them to their deaths, but the emissary had lost the one thing that he truly lived for, and he most certainly did.
99
Tal Der Drei Brüder
To Falco the march into the hills felt like walking into a dream. As the day lengthened so a thick mist had fallen, but the army pushed on until they reached the head of the pass and the way ahead levelled out. During the night the darkness had been so complete that even the enemy’s dark angels could not see through it, but still the foul creatures had tormented the army with their dark presence and screeching cries. All through the night Falco had battled to keep them at bay and the blackness had been lit by his lightening and Sidian’s fire. But now the night was over and the blackness had given way to an all enveloping grey.
They marched for two more hours, but still the mist covered the land like a shroud and the sound of the army’s passing echoed strangely in the seemingly empty void. As the dense fog finally began to break they reached an area where the path petered out, giving way to a flat expanse of brown grass and scrub.
Falco was riding a horse beside Marshal Breton with Sidian walking a short distance away. The low cloud had been too thick for them to scout ahead and besides, with so much fear in the air Falco did not want to leave the army alone. A few yards ahead of them were two of the scouts that had been this way before. The army continued for more than a mile before they stopped.
‘This is it,’ said one of the scouts as Falco and Marshal Breton drew level wi
th them. ‘This is the Valley of the Three Brethren.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Marshal Breton, but even as he spoke the mist continued to clear and they could see the tops of three isolated hills, one behind them to the right, another to the left and a third up ahead.
In truth it was less like a valley and more like a high plateau enclosed by three hills, but for the first time Marshal Breton could gauge the lay of the land. Close to the ground the mist was still quite thick, but the scouts had assured him that the area between the hills was level and free of significant obstacles. There was no sign of the enemy but Falco had assured him that this would be the place that they would make their stand.
Unable to say why he had allowed himself to be led here, Marshal Breton raised his arm and brought it down to left and right, his signalmen relaying the order for the army to deploy into the three divisions that had been decided upon.
General Renucci would command their right flank with the Fourth Army and one of the Illician Leagues, while the Irregulars would take the left flank with two of the larger Illician forces. His own Fifth Army would take the centre with the remaining Illician troops plus the Adamanti and the Knights of Wrath.
Without knowing the details of the Possessed force he could not risk a central push or even a single line defence. Instead he had decided to deploy in the formation of debilis centrum, or weak centre, but on this occasion their centre would actually be their strongest point. With luck he might be able to hold the centre long enough to enfold the enemy from the wings and then he could drive forward with massed ranks of Illician pike.
As the three divisions moved into position Marshal Breton rode over to Falco who had dismounted from his horse and was now standing beside Sidian and staring into the mist.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Is the enemy upon us?’
‘No,’ said Falco. ‘This is something else.’
Suddenly there was a cry of alarm and then figures began to emerge from the mist, soldiers stumbling forward like the ghosts of broken men.
‘It’s the army from Hertzheim,’ said Marshal Breton, his voice strained with disbelief.
Cries of concern and fear began to spread through the army as they saw the state of those who had survived the Marchio’s attack. Nearly all were injured, but even those that were not were wide eyed with trauma, their gaze still haunted by the horror of what they had been through. So far gone were these poor wretches that they barely registered the presence of their kinsmen and allies. They pushed their way through the gathered ranks, lashing out and flinching from any attempt to stop them.
‘So few,’ said Marshal Breton as the flow of survivors began to slow.
Through the mist it was difficult to tell, but surely no more than a thousand men had managed to reach them, less than a thousand from forty.
‘May the Fates have mercy,’ breathed Marshal Breton, but Falco was wondering how any of them had retained the strength to flee at all.
And then he saw it, a wagon being drawn, not by mules, but by two of the finest coursers he had ever seen. But it was not the quality of the animals pulling the cart that had caught Falco’s attention, it was the souls that lay within. Leaving Sidian he started towards the wagon and even though he knew what it carried he was shocked when it finally reached him.
To the front of the wagon a knight cradled the head of an unconscious man in fine robes and exquisite armour while behind them lay the mutilated figures of a dragon and a battle mage. Without hesitation Falco rushed round and climbed into the back of the wagon. Lacerated and burned the dragon was just barely alive, as was the battle mage who opened his eyes as he felt a hand on his forehead.
‘Lie still,’ said Falco. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The man did not know Falco, but he recognised him as a fellow soul and with the last of his strength he reached up to remove his hand.
‘Save the prince,’ he said and his eyes drifted towards the unconscious man at the front of the wagon.
Falco had already guessed that the unconscious man was the Crown Prince of Illicia, but now his heart lurched as the battle mage breathed his last. The man’s body simply went limp and a moment later the dragon’s heart also gave out as if, only together, they had had the strength to hold on.
With nothing to be done for the battle mage and dragon, Falco moved forward and placed a hand on Prince Ernest’s brow. He closed his eyes and frowned at what he sensed then, placing his other hand on the prince’s chest, he suffused his body with a gentle surge of healing energy.
As the wagon approached the army so a group of Adamanti rode over to guide it through. The faces of the Illician soldiers were filled with concern as they recognised the unconscious figure of their sovereign lord. The Crown Prince had suffered injuries to both body and spirit and Falco was not sure if he would survive, but that was not what the anxious onlookers needed to hear.
‘He’s alive,’ said Falco as he jumped down from the wagon and the news quickly passed throughout the whole of the allied force.
‘The Crown Prince lives,’ they whispered. ‘Prince Ernest is alive.’
Falco allowed them this brief moment of joy for he knew it would be short lived. Like the onset of a storm he could feel the enemy drawing closer. In the landscape of his mind it seemed like a dark sunrise, a sunrise that brought not light and warmth but fear and despair. And within the encroaching darkness he could feel the deeper shadow of demons. The Marchio himself was yet to rise above the horizon, but even now Falco could feel the force of his presence. He was the dark eye of the storm that moved towards them and Falco tried not to think of what would happen when he arrived. He could not say how many normal demons were approaching, but he knew where the first of them would strike.
Turning to Sidian he leapt onto the dragon’s back.
‘Signal the Irregulars to stand ready,’ he called to Marshal Breton. ‘The first demon will strike us there.’
‘Is it him?’ asked Marshal Breton. ‘Is it the Marchio Dolor?’
‘No,’ said Falco. ‘The first is just one of many. The Marchio Dolor is something more.’
Marshal Breton blanched. For all his years of experience the presence of a demon always swamped his courage and loosened his bowels. He did not know how any man could withstand such fear, let alone the fear of something greater still.
‘Remember,’ said Falco, drawing the Marshal back to himself. ‘If you need me, sound three deep blasts of the horn. Even if I don’t hear it Sidian will and we will come if we can.’
Marshal Breton nodded, glancing nervously at his signalmen before turning back to look at Falco.
‘May the light shine upon your blade,’ he said and Falco was taken aback by the earnestness of his tone.
‘And yours,’ he replied with genuine respect.
The first demon was heading towards their left flank and Falco needed to get into position to meet it, but before he moved off he looked back at a knight who sat on his smoke grey Percheron in the front rank of the Adamanti. Many of the knights were looking in Falco’s direction, but the emissary was staring straight ahead. Falco reached out with his mind and now the emissary turned to look at him but there was no emotion in the steel mask of his great-helm.
‘Don’t lose faith,’ Falco tried to tell him, but the emissary just looked away and Falco felt a terrible sense of loss.
Ever since the day of the trials he had relied on the emissary’s presence and strength. Even when they were hundreds of miles apart he had known that the emissary was there, still fighting, still giving strength to those who looked to him for leadership. Now that man was gone and Falco felt bereft, but he could not afford to be undermined by regret or grief. The enemy would only use such things to tear his soul apart.
With a sigh he turned away and urged Sidian down the line of nervous troops. They walked past rows of spearmen now packed in tight formation to resist a frontal assault, past blocks of sword and shield ready to push forward or defend as the situation requi
red, past squadrons of cavalry poised to strike with speed and strength. And then, just before Marshal Breton’s force gave way to the Irregulars, he drew level with the Knights of Wrath.
At the head of the squadron Lord Cabal dipped his lance in salute and Falco bowed his head, but then his gaze was drawn to two knights who were yet to don their helms.
Falco returned Huthgarl’s bow and then his eyes settled on Malaki. The distance was too great for them to speak, but the gaze that passed between them contained a lifetime of meaning. A tiny part of Falco still wondered if Malaki ever blamed him for everything that had happened: for the ruin of their town, the death of his father, for Quirren, and even now, for leading them to this place from which none of them really expected to leave.
But he need not have worried.
Malaki’s gaze was hard and focussed, but it held a message that Falco had seen once before. Then, Falco had worried about the revelations of his noble birth, but even after everything, the message in Malaki’s eyes was the same as ever.
‘I am your friend, Falco Danté.
Servant, Lord or battle mage.
I will always be your friend.’
Behind the visor of his helm Falco’s eyes pricked with tears. If he was able to face the agents of hell it was because he had friends like Malaki de Vane.
He gave Malaki a nod and then with a final look he continued until Sidian stood at the centre of the Irregulars’ line. Turning round he faced the unbroken line of sword, shield and spear, which was flanked by cavalry and supported by archers. He could sense Bryna with her Dalwhinnies and Alex with the Exiles. He wished that he had been able to make his peace with Alex and he wished that he and Malaki could fight at Bryna’s side, but he knew that she was not alone. She had Patrick Feckler and three hundred scoundrels who would lay down their lives for the Mistress of the Rogues. And somewhere in that great mass of troops were Lanistas Magnus and Deloix.
They were all here. All with him. And the only thing left to do was fight.
Battle Mage Page 87