Battle Mage

  BATTLE MAGE

  Peter A. Flannery

  BLACKHEART BOOKS

  BATTLE MAGE

  A BLACKHEART BOOK: 978-0-9570919-2-4

  First published by Blackheart Books in 2017

  Copyright © Peter A. Flannery 2017

  The right of Peter A. Flannery to be identified

  as author has been asserted.

  For my brother Anthony who lit the spark

  For Tolkien who fanned it to a flame

  For all the creative talents who keep it burning still

  And for all those who love fantasy books

  This is mine

  I hope you enjoy it

  Acknowledgements

  With love and thanks to my wife, Julie, who spots so

  many of my mistakes and lets me know when I’m

  starting to waffle. My books are better because of you.

  Thanks to Kevin Arms, Judith Coulson, Fiona Seaton, Lisa Smith

  and Megan Nagle (author of Azurite). You were kind enough to read this

  book before it was published and brave enough to give me your thoughts.

  Thanks to Rob Miller, the Master Swordsmith of Skye.

  I hope I did the forging of a sword justice.

  (See Rob’s beautiful swords at www.castlekeep.co.uk

  Contents

  1. Prologue

  2. Son of Madness

  3. The Balance of Friendship

  4. The Trials

  5. Ballymudge

  6. The Challenge

  7. Servant or Noble Lord

  8. The Magi

  9. The Summoning

  10. The Dragon Stone

  11. Every Living Soul

  12. Regret

  13. Into The Mountains

  14. Dark Angel

  15. Rearguard

  16. Sacrifice

  17. Cowardice, Courage and Cunning

  18. A Message in the Reeds

  19. The Possessed

  20. Simeon

  21. Great Soul

  22. The Marchio Dolor

  23. Toulwar

  24. A Meeting of Minds

  25. The Great Possession

  26. Journey’s End

  27. The Queen of Wrath

  28. As The Eagle, So The Falcon

  29. The Hermit, The Healer & The Fisherman

  30. A Familiar Reception

  31. Darkness Rising

  32. The Academy of War

  33. The Disciplines of Lore

  34. The Training Begins

  35. Defiance

  36. The Crucible

  37. In All Creation

  38. Dalwhinnies, Full Bonnet & The Épreuve du Force

  39. Archives of the Magi

  40. Emergence

  41. Nay Shed a Clout

  42. A Passing Shadow

  43. Paddy The Feck

  44. Long Forgotten Dreams

  45. The Chamber of Council

  46. A Mental Block

  47. Respect

  48. A Single Touch

  49. Progress

  50. The Last Surviving Witness

  51. The Armour of a Battle Mage

  52. The Traverser

  53. The Elemental Weakness of Steel

  54. Convergence

  55. The Tale of Jürgen Focke

  56. The Trials of Leadership

  57. Le Matres, Hunting & The Commander of the Fourth

  58. The Slayer

  59. The Failings of Normal Men

  60. Daston

  61. Defiants

  62. Flight

  63. Old Times

  64. The Call To Arms

  65. Master Danté

  66. Into The Night

  67. Haste

  68. The Fourth Army

  69. The Greatest of These

  70. A Grievous Wound

  71. On a Late Spring Evening

  72. The Serthian Wolf

  73. Diplomacy

  74. Sinner

  75. The Sword of a Battle Mage

  76. The Rite of Assay

  77. For What You Will Become

  78. Hunter and Hunted

  79. Answers

  80. Darkness Falls

  81. Great Chief

  82. Reconciled

  83. Sidian

  84. Le Cœur Noir

  85. Unexpected Threats

  86. Pain, Pain and Eternal Pain

  87. A Sense of Foreboding

  88. Darkness Reborn

  89. Hard Decisions

  90. Mina

  91. Hoffen

  92. The Cost of Defiance

  93. Pride Before the Fall

  94. The Battle of Navaria

  95. A Token of Love and Loss

  96. Reunited & Torn Apart

  97. The Son of Aquila Danté

  98. The Dark, The Deep & The Grave

  99. The Chevalier

  100. Tal Der Drei Brüder

  101. Demons of Fire and Flail

  102. The Mercy of Patrick Feckler

  103. To Save The Ones We Love

  104. Darkness

  105. Of Healing, Grief & Hope

  106. All The Hordes of Hell

  107. The Cairn of Fallen Souls

  108. Epilogue

  BATTLE MAGE

  The world knows no emotion to match a dragon’s grief

  Save perhaps a dragon’s rage

  Prologue

  The knight blinked the blood and the tears of failure from his eyes. He wheeled his horse about and raised his visor to view the field. All across the valley the Illician forces were falling back in rout.

  The battle was lost.

  The knight’s tears tasted bitter on his tongue. They should have been enough to defeat the Possessed army, they should have prevailed, but they had not reckoned on the demon. It had remained hidden, only revealing itself at the last minute and by then it was too late to request the presence of a battle mage.

  No. This was their battle, and it was lost.

  He felt no shame, for few could stand their ground in the presence of such a foe. And yet they had stood. For almost an hour the soldiers of Illicia had held their ground. But now the end was near.

  From the crest of the hill he looked down upon his foe. The demon towered over the human warriors of the Possessed, a thing of unearthly power and hellish strength. The knight knew he could not kill it. His only hope now was to die quickly before he succumbed to the fear. With a final effort of will he urged his mount forward, hoping that his courage would not fail before the end. And yet, even as he rode to his death, he thought not of himself but of the people they had failed. The Possessed army had broken through the Illician defences. It would move into the mountains where it would be difficult to follow. It would avoid the strength of Clemoncé and move instead into the kingdom of Valentia.

  Valentia had once been renowned for the courage and skill of its warriors but in recent generations its reputation had waned. As the knight gave his mount unto the charge he wondered if anything of its greatness remained.

  He hoped it did.

  For the sake of all their souls he hoped it did.

  PART I

  RUIN

  1

  Son of Madness

  In the far north of Valentia the sun was rising on the mountain town of Caer Dour. The air was crisp and cold and the pale stone of the buildings shone brightly in the morning light. The rhythmic sound of the smithy’s hammer rang above the lowing of cattle and the bleating of goats. The smell of dung from the stables mingled with that of freshly baked bread and smoke from a thousand newly set hearths.

  It seemed like any other morning. There was no evidence of fear, and nothing to suggest that the town was in mortal danger. Rather, there was a sense of excitement i
n the air for this was the day of the trials, a special day when the people of Caer Dour got to show off their fighting skills to the Queen’s emissary.

  It was still early and yet there were already people in the cobbled streets, all making their way to the western edge of the town where the road to Clemoncé climbed over the craggy hill. It was from here that he would arrive, the emissary from the Court of Wrath.

  Every two years he made the journey from the capital of Clemoncé to see the best of what Caer Dour had to offer in the field of combat. Those who excelled in the trials would return with him to study at the Academy of War in Wrath. It was always a time of great excitement but this year it was especially so. This year the emissary was bringing back a student who had completed his training. But this was no ordinary knight or swordsman, this was a battle mage, the first that Caer Dour had produced in over forty years, and his arrival could not have come at a more timely hour.

  Barely two weeks ago the border patrols reported that a Ferocian army had broken through the Illician defences and crossed into Valentia. It had already laid waste to several villages and was now within a few days’ march of the town. A demon marched at the head of the Possessed and without a battle mage the town’s army would have no chance of stopping them. But today their champion was coming home and so the people of Caer Dour were not nearly as afraid as perhaps they ought to be. Instead they rose early and prepared for the spectacle of the day. People walked onto the hill and hung out of windows, all hoping to catch an early glimpse of the Queen’s envoy.

  On a villa near the outskirts of town two young men had gone a step further, climbing out onto the red ceramic tiles of the roof. One was Malaki de Vane, the blacksmith’s son, a tall muscular youth with thick brown hair and a bright red birthmark down the left side of his face. The other was almost as tall but he was thin and frail with lank, dark hair and a pale, sickly complexion. The lines of his face were pleasing enough but his cheeks were hollow and gaunt. His name was Falco Danté, and the only thing about him that spoke of strength was the colour of his eyes which were a bright and vivid green.

  ‘Be careful, Falco. You’re going to fall!’

  ‘I just want to see,’ said Falco as he edged his way towards the apex of the roof.

  ‘We’ll see soon enough. Just come down here where it’s safer.’ Malaki despaired of his friend’s foolhardiness. ‘I’m not going to catch you if you fall!’

  ‘Yes, you will,’ said Falco with a smile. He knew his friend would never let him fall.

  Malaki tried a different tack.

  ‘You’ll break the tiles,’ he insisted. ‘Then Simeon will have your hide.’

  Simeon le Roy was the master of the villa on which they climbed. Falco had served him since the death of his father almost fourteen years ago.

  ‘The tiles are fine,’ said Falco. ‘I’m not a half-ton lummox like you.’

  ‘Well don’t blame me if you get a good beating.’

  ‘Simeon would never beat me,’ gasped Falco as he swung a leg over the apex of the roof. His arms shook from the exertion of the climb and his breathing rasped noisily in his chest.

  ‘Well he should,’ said Malaki. ‘I’ve never known a servant have it so easy.’

  This of course was far from true. An easy life was the one thing Falco Danté did not have. He was a weakling in a world of warriors and worse than that, he was the son of a madman.

  ‘Well?’ asked Malaki impatiently.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Can you see any further?’

  The wheezing in Falco’s chest was becoming uncomfortable. The cold morning air was not good for his lungs but still he smiled.

  ‘All the way to the cloven rock,’ he said.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Malaki. ‘I’m coming up.’

  Despite his size Malaki climbed the sloping roof with surprising agility. In no time at all he was sitting behind his friend on the highest point of the villa. Together they gazed towards a large split boulder where the stony path rounded the hill.

  ‘Do you think he’ll bring the magi?’ asked Malaki, referring to the emissary.

  ‘He always comes with one,’ replied Falco casually. ‘They’ll want to review the apprentices.’

  ‘I know that!’ said Malaki. ‘But do you think he’ll bring more? Do you think there’ll be a summoning?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Falco lied. He tried to sound disinterested but the truth was he knew the magi were coming. Somehow he knew there would be a summoning.

  ‘I hope he does,’ breathed Malaki. ‘Imagine it… Not just a battle mage, but a battle mage with a dragon. The Ferocian army wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘We don’t need a dragon to defeat the Possessed,’ said Falco. ‘Darius will be enough.’

  Everyone knew the way of things. A well trained army had a good chance of defeating a Possessed army of similar size but if the Possessed were led by a demon then a normal army stood no chance at all. They would be overcome by fear. Only with a battle mage could they hope to prevail.

  It was not just the fighting prowess and the arcane powers of a battle mage, it was the presence of their soul, a beacon of faith, the keystone of courage by which normal men might stand. A battle mage is a mighty ally to count among your ranks but a battle mage with a dragon, well, such a thing is a force of nature.

  ‘But wouldn’t you like to see a dragon?’ pressed Malaki. ‘Just once.’

  ‘No,’ Falco lied again. He and Malaki had been friends since childhood, but he did not want anyone to know the depth of his yearning to see a dragon, he did not want anyone to suspect what he intended to do.

  Malaki looked at his friend’s narrow back, the slumped shoulders, the bowed head.

  ‘Because of your father?’ he said quietly.

  Falco simply nodded. His lack of interest was a pretence, the shame he felt at the mention of his father was not. The two boys sat in silence as the sun slanted across the rooftops.

  ‘Where are they?’ said Malaki. ‘The sun’s well up. They should be here by now.’

  Falco said nothing as the shadow of discomfort slowly lifted from his mind.

  ‘Don’t know why I’m so excited,’ said Malaki. ‘It’s not as if I’ll be trying out for a place at the academy.’

  ‘You’ll be fighting in the melee,’ said Falco over his shoulder. ‘And you’re favourite to win that. Maybe they’ll let you present yourself anyway.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Malaki. ‘And pigs might fly out of my arse!’

  Falco laughed at his friend’s modesty. As far as he was concerned there was not a cadet in the entire region who could match Malaki’s skill with a sword.

  ‘Imagine fighting in the trials,’ said Malaki. ‘Imagine being presented to Queen Catherine at the Court of Wrath.’

  Falco was glad that Malaki could not see his face. There was a determined smile on his lips and a fierce green light in his eyes. Damn the magi and the laws of noble birth. If things went the way he had planned, Malaki would get his chance to impress the Queen’s emissary. But he did not want to say anything just yet and he was about to change the subject when a cry of anguish made them both turn back to the house.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ said Malaki.

  Falco did not answer. He was listening for any further sounds.

  Another cry emerged from the villa. It was a cry of fear that gave way to an unsettling moan. Malaki was transfixed but Falco swung his leg back over the apex of the roof and started to work his way down.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Malaki as he joined Falco on the lower part of the roof.

  ‘It’s Simeon,’ said Falco, walking the length of a short gully before traversing the gutters towards a veranda at the far end of the villa.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I just want to make sure he’s all right.’

  ‘But we’ll miss the emissary.’

  ‘I just want to make sure,’ said Falco.

  Malaki raised his eyes to the sky then
moved to follow his friend. The moans had turned to snarls and whispers as the two youths climbed onto the veranda and peered through gaps in the shutters.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Malaki.

  Falco looked down upon the shadowy form of his master.

  Simeon le Roy lay sprawled on his bed, twisted in his blankets. The old man twitched and shuddered and mouthed words that neither of them could make out. The moaning and crying was interspersed by snarls of aggression as if he were engaged in a struggle.

  ‘He’s dreaming,’ said Falco.

  ‘Mother of all!’ breathed Malaki. ‘Dreaming of what?’

  ‘Of hell,’ said Falco.

  Malaki felt a shudder of fear run through him but Falco’s eyes merely narrowed as the sight of Simeon’s suffering roused the spectre of his own night-time terrors.

  You would never have the courage.

  You would never have the strength.

  The mocking voice echoed in Falco’s mind as the world seemed to darken around him.

  ‘Should we wake him?’ asked Malaki and Falco was brought out of his reverie.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait with him. It’ll pass.’

  Malaki stole a sideways glance at his friend. There was something in Falco’s voice that he had heard many times before, a kind of maturity, an intensity that made him feel as if he did not really know his friend at all.

  ‘Does he always dream like this?’

  ‘No,’ said Falco. ‘Some nights are worse than others.’

  ‘Is there nothing to be done?’

  Falco shook his head. ‘It’s the curse of a battle mage,’ he said, ‘but also their strength. When they meet a demon on the battlefield they do not feel the fear of other men.’

  ‘Why not?’ breathed Malaki.

  ‘Because it’s not new to them,’ said Falco. ‘Since they were a child they have known it in their dreams.’

  Malaki wanted to know more but he knew better than to question Falco too deeply. Simeon had been a battle mage for many years, fighting the Possessed when the enemy was still a vague and distant threat. But his long service to the kingdoms of Wrath had ended abruptly some fourteen years ago when Falco’s father had gone mad and killed half the magi in the town.