Battle Mage Page 2

  Malaki’s gaze lingered on Falco for a moment longer then he put his eye back to the crack in the window’s shutter and watched an old man wrestle with all the torments of hell.

  A bell suddenly rang out in the clear morning air and both boys started at the sound.

  ‘He’s here!’ said Malaki, climbing over the rail and making his way back along the gutter. The big youth climbed quickly back to the apex of the roof. ‘I can see him!’ he called. ‘And Darius too!’

  Falco looked up at his friend and smiled, but when he peered back through the shutter, Simeon was no longer writhing in his sleep. He was sitting up in his crumpled bed with his face turned directly towards the window at which Falco crouched. A shaft of sunlight fell across him, revealing a terrible mask of disfigurement. The skin of his face was scarred and burned, and the bright sunlight cast black shadows in the empty sockets of his eyes.

  Simeon le Roy was blind.

  ‘That cold morning air will be the death of you, Falco Danté.’

  Falco smiled at his master’s gentle scolding.

  ‘And you can wipe that smile of your face, you scrawny whelp!’

  The smile broadened. Simeon might have lost his eyes, but he still saw more than most. Any vestige of fear and vulnerability faded as the former battle mage rose from his bed and pulled a robe about his broad shoulders. He pushed back his long grey hair and tied it with silk cord. He was old, beyond his sixtieth year at least, and yet despite a pronounced limp and a certain stiffness in his limbs, he still possessed a warrior’s bearing. He walked over to the window and drew open the shutters.

  ‘How many magi, Master de Vane?’ he called out in a voice that had the timbre of oak.

  Neither Falco nor Malaki were surprised by the extent of his awareness. Not all the powers of a battle mage are dependent on the gift of sight.

  ‘Wait!’ called Malaki from his roof-top perch. ‘There’s a bank of mist rolled in.’

  ‘Four,’ whispered Falco so quietly that he thought it went unheard. He did not see Simeon’s face turn towards him, the scarred forehead creased in thought.

  There was a short pause while Malaki waited for the mist to clear. Then… ‘Four,’ he shouted. ‘There are four magi.’

  Malaki sounded disappointed, but Simeon just nodded.

  ‘Hmm.’ The sound was a low rumble in his throat. ‘With the three from Caer Dour that makes seven. It seems there will be a summoning after all.’

  Falco tried not to show any reaction to Simeon’s words. His outward demeanour was sullen and unmoved, but inside he felt dizzy with excitement. Tonight, when all the trials were over, Darius Voltario would attempt to summon a dragon and he, Falco, would be there to see it.

  2

  The Balance of Friendship

  ‘He’s only brought four magi,’ exclaimed Malaki as he returned to join Falco and Simeon on the veranda.

  ‘Morning, Malaki,’ said Simeon.

  ‘Good morning, Master le Roy,’ said Malaki somewhat sheepishly. Scrambling over a nobleman’s house in the early hours of the morning might not be the most appropriate thing to do, but Simeon was not like the other nobles in the town. He was approachable, almost normal. Ordinarily Malaki would have shown more restraint, but in the excitement of the day he just could not help himself. ‘Why only four?’ he asked. ‘I thought he’d bring seven to make us up to ten.’

  Simeon turned to Falco inviting him to answer, but Falco refused to look at his master.

  ‘With the proper preparation it takes only seven magi to subdue a dragon,’ said Simeon.

  ‘Subdue it?’ queried Malaki. ‘I thought the dragons were on our side. Why would we want to subdue it?’

  Again Simeon looked to Falco, but still he showed no sign of joining in the conversation.

  ‘Most dragons will give their lives for their battle mage, and for the free people of Wrath,’ said Simeon.

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem, Master de Vane, is that there is always the chance that a black dragon will answer the summoning.’

  ‘What’s so special about a black dragon?’ Malaki was enthralled. He had never known anyone speak so freely about dragons.

  ‘Regardless of what colour they start out,’ explained Simeon, ‘all dragons will eventually turn black. They are the oldest and most powerful of all dragonkind.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’ persisted Malaki.

  ‘It would be,’ said Simeon, ‘except for one tragic fact.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Black dragons are mad,’ said Simeon. ‘Rather than fighting to the death to save a human life a black dragon will turn against them, killing at random until it is slain or it flees back beyond the Endless Sea.’

  Malaki’s mouth gaped open and he looked at Falco as if to say, ‘Did you know this?’

  Falco turned away from his friend’s unspoken question. He leaned on the railings enclosing the veranda and stared out across the town. Unlike Malaki he was not enjoying this lesson on the nature of dragons.

  ‘It’s been that way ever since the Great Possession,’ said Simeon, ‘when the dragons were overcome by evil. It seems that something of that Possession survives in the heart of a black dragon.’

  Malaki was stunned.

  ‘What colour of dragon answered your summoning?’ he asked.

  Simeon snorted softly. ‘Not all battle mages are destined to fight with a dragon at their side.’

  Malaki seemed disappointed. He paused for a minute as if trying to absorb what he had just learned. Then he turned to Falco.

  ‘Is that what happened to your father?’ he began. ‘I’ve heard people say that his dragon was black.’

  The moment he had said it Malaki knew he had overstepped the mark. Falco pushed away from the railings and walked through the window into Simeon’s room. He had barely crossed the threshold when Simeon stopped him with a word.

  ‘Falco!’

  Falco stopped but he did not turn.

  ‘Those are my chambers, Falco Danté.’ Simeon too spoke without turning and Malaki’s eyes flitted from one stiff back to the other. ‘You can leave the roof by the way you came. And have a care about the liberties you take in my household.’

  Falco made no answer but he slouched back onto the veranda and started to climb over the rail.

  ‘I will take some bread and fruit with my wine this morning,’ said Simeon in the same tone of command.

  Falco was about to start along the gutter, back to the window where he and Malaki had first climbed out onto the roof. He paused. ‘Yes, master,’ he said quietly.

  Simeon gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and Falco continued on his way.

  ‘And Falco,’ said Simeon in a more lenient voice. ‘When you’ve seen to that, have Fossetta make up an infusion. You sound like a wizened old mule. You’ll be serving no one at the trials if you’re laid up in your bed coughing up a lung.’

  At these words Malaki looked aghast at Simeon and then accusingly at his friend. With a few mumbled words he took his leave and followed after Falco. He caught up with him as he disappeared through the window at the top of the stairs.

  ‘What does he mean, serving at the trials?’ Malaki demanded as he vaulted through the window and caught Falco’s shoulder before he could leave the landing.

  Falco’s guilty expression was answer enough.

  ‘I’ve paid good money to make sure you wouldn’t be serving at the trials!’

  ‘I’ll pay you back,’ said Falco. He shrugged off Malaki’s hand and started down the stairs towards the servants’ quarters.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Malaki, falling in beside him. ‘Bellius will be in his element. He’s bound to try and make an example of you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Falco as he pushed open the door into the kitchen.

  With connections to the royal family, both in Caer Laison and Wrath, Bellius Snidesson was the region’s most powerful noble and its most unpleasant. Apart f
rom making other peoples’ lives a misery there were just three things that Bellius cared about - wealth, power and the advancement of his only son, Jarek, a cruel and spoilt young man who had beaten Falco on so many occasions that he had lost count. Even the approach of a Ferocian army had given the nobleman the perfect opportunity to consolidate his power and Malaki had no doubt that today, of all days, Bellius would be at his insufferable best. So it was with puzzlement and annoyance that he followed his friend into the kitchen.

  A waft of warm air enveloped them as they entered the large stone-flagged room. The familiar smells of cooked meats, garlic, and herbs made their mouths water. One wall was dominated by a wide open fireplace bedecked with copper pots and cooking utensils. Beside the fire was a black iron stove and standing over it a pleasantly rounded woman, her grey hair tied back beneath a white headscarf.

  ‘Well,’ said Fossetta, ‘did you see them?’

  Simeon’s housekeeper did not look up from the pans she was tending as the two youths entered the room.

  ‘Good morning, Mistress Pieroni,’ said Malaki. ‘Yes, we saw them.’

  It was clear that both boys were distracted, but the lack of a response from Falco caused Fossetta to raise her eyes and follow his progress to the pantry.

  ‘Good morning, Malaki,’ said Fossetta as she watched Falco place a selection of fruit and bread on a pewter plate. ‘How many magi did the emissary bring?’

  ‘Four,’ replied Malaki. The big youth had seated himself at the oak table in the centre of the room and was eyeing a platter of fresh bread and sausage.

  Fossetta removed the pans from the heat. She wiped her hands on her apron as she approached the table then slid a knife and plate in front of Malaki.

  ‘So,’ she said as Malaki gave her a smile of thanks, ‘there’ll be a summoning after all.’

  Malaki ‘humphed’ as he tore off a piece of bread and sliced sausage onto his plate. ‘Am I the only one in this town who knows nothing about dragons?’

  Fossetta placed a pewter cup in front of him and filled it with water from a jug.

  ‘You learn a thing or two when you’re house keeper to a battle mage for twenty years.’

  Falco had effectively excluded himself from their conversation but, from the corner of her eye, Fossetta watched him carefully as he placed a carafe of wine beside the plate of food and went to fill a pitcher from a large pot of steaming water near the fire.

  ‘Morning, Falco,’ she said.

  ‘Morning, Fossetta.’

  Falco might be in a sullen mood but he could not bring himself to be openly rude. Fossetta was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known. He carried the pitcher of hot water back to the table, but his wheezing breath had not escaped the housekeeper’s notice. Walking up behind him she placed one hand on his forehead and the other between his shoulder blades.

  ‘Breathe,’ she said.

  Falco rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Hmm.’ Fossetta was obviously not impressed by what she felt.

  ‘Sit,’ she told him.

  ‘But the master,’ started Falco.

  ‘I’ll see to the master.’

  She pushed Falco into a chair and filled a basin with water from a kettle hanging over the fire. Then she took a bottle of crushed herbs from a shelf and stirred several spoonfuls into the water. The room was suddenly filled with the sharp scent of lavender, eucalyptus and camomile. She took a large towel from a clothes rack then, bending Falco forward over the bowl of steaming water, she covered his head with the towel.

  ‘Make sure he stays there till I get back,’ she told Malaki.

  With a mouthful of bread and sausage Malaki gave her a nod then the housekeeper gathered up the pitcher of hot water, the wine and the plate of food, and left the room.

  Silence descended.

  The only sounds were those of Malaki’s chewing and the slow wheezing of Falco’s breath.

  ‘Sorry for being so tetchy.’ Falco’s voice was muffled by the towel.

  By way of a response Malaki put some food on a plate and slid it up against Falco’s hand. It was comical to see his friend’s hand fumble around for a hunk of bread before disappearing under the towel.

  ‘I still don’t understand why you want to serve at the trials,’ said Malaki. ‘The pavilion will be crawling with nobles.’

  ‘I have my reasons,’ managed Falco round a mouthful of food.

  ‘You’re an awkward bugger at times,’ said Malaki.

  Falco raised the towel to look at his broad-shouldered friend.

  ‘I know,’ he smiled.

  Malaki shook his head and returned the smile then, with a wave of his hand, he directed Falco to get back under the towel. The two youths sat in silence for a while until Falco spoke again.

  ‘Red,’ he said. ‘The dragon that answered my father’s summoning was red.’

  Malaki swallowed the chunk of food in his mouth and Falco went on.

  ‘They say that even from the start it was dark. Crimson, like the blood that flows from a vein.’

  Falco sat up from the steaming infusion and pushed the towel back from his head, while Malaki held his breath. Of all the things they had talked about they had never talked of this.

  ‘Over the years the colour deepened and the magi were watching,’ Falco went on. ‘Simeon says that my father knew the truth. He knew that if his dragon turned black he would have no choice but to kill it. He says that even the dragon knows what must happen and that they go willingly to their deaths.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Malaki quietly.

  ‘No one knows,’ said Falco. ‘They say that as the colour changed my father grew withdrawn and distant. He spent more and more time in the Forsaken Lands hunting the Possessed alone. No army in support, just Aquila Danté and his dragon.’

  Malaki waited for his friend to go on. He had heard snippets of the story, but no one seemed to want to talk about it. This was a chapter in Caer Dour’s history that people seemed eager to forget.

  ‘He grew increasingly angry and his anger led to confrontation.’

  ‘Confrontation with what?’

  ‘The magi,’ said Falco. ‘My father was becoming unreasonable, unhinged.’ Falco spoke this last word as if he were quoting someone else. ‘Then his dragon turned black.’

  ‘And black dragons are mad,’ said Malaki and Falco just nodded.

  ‘The magi restrained it. But rather than helping them slay it, my father sided with the dragon.’

  Malaki stared into Falco’s bright green eyes.

  ‘He killed six magi and four of the town’s best knights,’ said Falco. ‘In the end it was Simeon who brought him down.’

  ‘I thought Simeon and your father were friends.’

  ‘They were.’ Falco’s gaze was no longer fixed on Malaki. He was staring into the past, a past that he did not remember, a past about which he had only ever been told. ‘The dragon managed one last burst of fire before it was slain.’

  ‘Simeon’s face,’ whispered Malaki and Falco nodded.

  ‘The remaining magi saved his life, but the dragon’s fire took his eyes before it died.’

  Malaki too was staring into space as he pictured the terrible scene. Then he looked up at Falco once more.

  ‘And you were sworn into service as payment for your father’s crimes.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Falco, wiping the condensation from his face.

  Before they could say any more the door opened and Fossetta re-entered the kitchen.

  ‘I thought I told you to stay under that towel,’ she scolded.

  She walked to a dresser at the side of the room and picked up a white ceramic dish then she moved to stand beside Falco and held the dish under his chin.

  ‘Spit!’ she said.

  Falco let out a sigh but Fossetta was insistent. Then to Malaki’s obvious disgust he hawked loudly and spat into the bowl. Fossetta studied the glob of sputum and shook her head.

  ‘Bac
k under you go,’ she told him.

  Falco knew there was no point in resisting. He gave Malaki a brief smile to say that everything was all right between them then he disappeared back under the towel.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be helping your father?’ said Fossetta as she began to slap Falco’s back with steady rhythmic blows. ‘With the army being mobilised he must be busy.’

  ‘He said I could look out for the emissary,’ replied Malaki.

  ‘Well, you’ve seen him now. And I’m sure your father could use the help.’

  ‘But we want to see him in the town,’ said Falco between slaps.

  ‘We might get a chance to speak to him,’ added Malaki.

  ‘You two are old enough to know how it goes,’ said Fossetta. ‘He’ll break his fast with the nobles and the magi then he’ll go straight to the trials. He won’t walk through the town till later in the afternoon. And if there’s going to be a summoning, well, he might not do it at all.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ conceded Malaki. He gathered up the remaining scraps of food from his plate before rising from the table. ‘As for you, wheezy,’ he added, flicking a crust of bread at Falco’s towel-covered head. ‘I’ll look out for you in the pavilion!’

  Falco flinched and made an obscene gesture with his hand. Malaki laughed but Fossetta cuffed Falco smartly round the head.

  ‘Away with you!’ she said to Malaki.

  Malaki started for the door, but just as he reached it Fossetta spoke again.

  ‘Good luck in the melee.’

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Pieroni,’ said Malaki and with another smile he was gone.

  Fossetta’s eyes lingered on the door as she stopped slapping Falco on the back. ‘He’s a good boy.’ She pulled back the towel and allowed Falco to sit upright.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Falco wiping his face with the corner of the towel.

  ‘Good fighter too.’

  Falco just nodded. The tightness in his chest had lessened and it was no longer so painful to breathe.

  ‘Shame he can’t fight in the trials,’ said Fossetta.

  ‘You know the rules,’ said Falco. ‘Only those of noble birth can fight in the trials.’