Battle Mage Page 5

  Bryna’s hands moved in a blur as she nocked her arrows, drew and loosed with blinding speed.

  Falco had never seen anyone fire so quickly and it seemed only a few seconds before she leapt to her feet and thrust her hand into the air. Seven arrows traced an arc over her head, but the white flags had gone up and the marshals were watching. Not one of those arrows would count. Bryna had fired her twenty. The timed shoot at battle range was over.

  The pavilion was in shock. Nobody had ever seen anything like it and yet no one could say that Bryna had broken the rules. It was just that no one had ever thought to do such a thing before. Bellius was predictably furious and many of the other nobles were indignant, but there were just as many who were amused and some who were even impressed. And there was at least one who was clearly delighted by Bryna’s unconventional tactics.

  ‘Bravo!’ shouted Merryweather excitedly. ‘Bravo!’ The jolly rotund man was on his feet and clapping for all he was worth.

  Falco shook his head as he watched the marshals come together in a huddle. The scores had been tallied. There was a tie. After a prolonged discussion that set the crowd muttering, two of the archers were invited to come and stand before the pavilion. One was the favourite, Allyster Mollé. The other was Bryna Godwin.

  The muttering turned to cheers as the victors approached the pavilion and the emissary stood to receive them. He looked at Allyster and gave the young nobleman a nod of congratulations. Then his attention shifted to Bryna and his expression became more severe.

  ‘You would be in dire trouble if you let the enemy get that close in a real battle, Mistress Godwyn,’ he said.

  Bryna swallowed hard and her flushed face grew a shade redder.

  ‘But if they ever did get that close,’ the emissary went on, ‘I’m sure you would make them pay.’

  ‘I would, my lord,’ said Bryna with a slight tremor in her voice.

  Finally the emissary’s expression softened. The weathered creases of his face broke into a smile, but when he addressed them it was in a tone of grave solemnity.

  ‘The Queen of Wrath has need of such as you,’ he began. ‘Will you give up your wealth and privilege and return with me to Wrath?’

  ‘I will,’ they said together.

  Allyster was clearly elated by the emissary’s favour, but Bryna’s eyes searched the pavilion for another face. The face of one whose approval she valued so much more.

  Falco leaned back until he could see Bryna’s father. Then he watched as they shared a private, unspoken moment. Sir Gerallt’s expression remained stern as he looked down upon his daughter, but then the corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly and he gave the smallest of nods. Bryna’s composure almost slipped as her bottom lip began to tremble, but she would not embarrass her father with tears. She did, however, allow herself a smile, a smile that lit up her face like a sunrise.

  ‘All right,’ breathed Falco as if Malaki were sitting beside him. ‘Maybe she is quite pretty.’

  5

  The Challenge

  For the first time in the day Falco had gone out of his way to look for a job, but not just any job. He wanted something that would require him to be near the front of the pavilion as the trials drew to a close. And so, as the archery targets were cleared away, he found himself standing just ten feet to the emissary’s left with a tray of sweets and heady-smelling liqueurs.

  The day of the trials was almost over. Only one event remained, the chaotic free-for-all known as the melee. There was no coveted place at the academy of War for the winner, but the melee was still the most eagerly anticipated spectacle of the day and the reason for this was obvious. The melee was open to anyone, noble and low-born alike. Anyone who fancied their chances was invited to enter. This was a contest for all the people of Caer Dour so it was no surprise to see young men ambling into view from every corner of the field.

  Each was armed with a round-shield and longsword. Forged from a white metal alloy, the edge of these blades was rounded and dull. They might not cut like a live blade but they could still break bones and bruise unprotected flesh. The pale alloy had the added advantage of leaving a silvery mark wherever it struck, an invaluable aid to the marshals whose job it was to identify the ‘wounded’ and the ‘slain’.

  Falco scanned the figures, looking for his friend’s distinctive blue-steel armour. Malaki’s armour was not burnished to a mirrored finish. It was not engraved or inlaid with silver or gold. Except for a light sheen of oil it looked just as it did when it was drawn from the forge’s fire. The distinctive blue lustre of the steel told the armourer when the metal had reached just the right temperature, retaining flexibility while adding a hardness that would turn all but the most violent of blows.

  Malaki had made the armour himself and it was clear to all where his future lay.

  ‘Yes,’ thought Falco as he continued to scan the crowd. ‘Malaki would make a good blacksmith, but he would make a better knight.’ All Malaki had to do was win the melee and he would do the rest. Finally his friend strode onto the field and Falco drew a calming breath.

  Malaki’s arrival was noted by all. Some gave a friendly, if somewhat wary smile, others simply returned his nods of acknowledgement, while many of the nobles tried a little too hard to pretend that they had not seen him at all. Bellius’s son Jarek simply stared at Malaki with open contempt. Unlike most of the others on the field he believed he was a match for Malaki de Vane. He was wrong of course, but he was too conceited to know it.

  The young men continued to weigh each other up as a large anvil was brought forward and set down just a few yards in front of the pavilion. The striking of the anvil would mark the various rounds of the melee. This was an age-old tradition and, with the anvil in place, the marshals called the melee to order.

  The assembled men came forward and the crowd seemed to lean in closer as the marshals’ spokesman addressed them.

  ‘Men of Caer Dour,’ he began. ‘You all know the rules of the melee.’

  ‘There are none!’ roared the crowd in what was clearly a long-standing joke.

  The marshal smiled indulgently before he went on. ‘This is an open contest where every man fights for himself.’

  There were jeers from the crowd as if they thought the marshal’s rules were altogether too boring.

  ‘The melee will be split into four rounds,’ he continued, ‘with each round being marked by the sounding of the anvil.’

  Everyone looked at the anvil and the burly man standing behind it with a large hammer in his hand.

  ‘Anyone spending more than five seconds on the ground will be removed from the melee.’

  ‘Boo!’ screamed the crowd.

  ‘Anyone suffering a significant injury will be removed from the melee.’

  ‘Boo!’ cried the crowd and even the contestants smiled at their appetite for blood.

  ‘And...’ the marshal added, being sure that they were all paying particular notice, ‘Anyone showing a strike to a critical area at the end of a round will be removed from the melee.’

  ‘Boo!’ cried the crowd but now the smiles and the laughter were fading away. The marshals had moved into position ready to observe the fighting from every possible angle.

  Falco felt a familiar presence at his shoulder.

  ‘It’s all down to Malaki now,’ said Simeon.

  Falco nodded. His stomach was churning with nerves.

  ‘He’ll do it,’ he said. ‘There’s no one out there to match him.’

  Simeon nodded his concurrence. Falco was not the only one who thought well of Malaki’s fighting ability.

  Finally the melee was ready to begin. The contestants had spread out evenly across the field with just a few yards between each of them. Their positions were essentially random and Falco was satisfied to see that Jarek was on the far side of the field.

  Helms were settled, shields were armed and swords were raised but, as the final manoeuvrings took place, Falco began to sense that something was wrong.
The contestants around Malaki seemed just a fraction too close. Malaki had clearly chosen one or two that he would engage from the start but others, who ‘seemed’ to have chosen different targets were actually angled more in his direction. Falco frowned and the drinks on his tray clinked together ominously.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Simeon.

  ‘It’s the spacing,’ said Falco, raising a hand to point. ‘It doesn’t look right. It looks as if they’re going to...’

  Falco’s words were cut off as the hammer came down on the anvil and the melee burst into a storm of combat.

  Falco watched as Malaki darted forward. He blocked a blow with his sword then charged his first target with his shield. The poor man was thrown off balance and Malaki swept his feet from under him before delivering a ‘fatal’ blow to his downed opponent.

  It all happened incredibly quickly and Malaki was already turning to his second target when the first unexpected attack took him off guard. He reacted swiftly and parried the blow with his shield, spinning round to launch a counter-attack, but as he did so three other contestants rushed at him simultaneously. He engaged one sword with his own but two others found their mark. One struck him hard on the back of his leg while the other slashed him in the side just below his armoured breastplate. He whirled away and tried to launch an assault of his own, but the damage was done. There were two silvery marks on critical areas of his body. His attackers retreated, seeking out new opponents, opponents who were still in with a chance of winning.

  Malaki’s chances were over. He was out.

  ‘They jumped him!’

  Falco could not believe his eyes.

  ‘Four of them jumped him, all at the same time.’

  Falco felt someone relieve him of his tray as sweets and liqueurs spilled onto the floor. He stared out across the field to where Malaki stood amid the chaos of the ongoing struggle. For a moment the big youth remained there as if he did not know what to do. Then one of the marshals reached him and drew him clear of the fighting. Clearly in a daze Malaki allowed himself to be led to the side of the field where his father, Balthazak de Vane, was waiting for him.

  Falco’s heart ached as he watched Balthazak remove Malaki’s helm and take his son into a tight embrace. Somewhere, in the far distance he heard a loud metallic ring as the hammer marked the end of the first round. Three more times the anvil sounded dimly in Falco’s ears and still he could not quite believe it. His great plan, his great gesture of friendship, it had all come to nothing. Malaki was supposed to win. How could it all have gone so wrong?

  ‘I’m sorry, Falco.’

  Falco felt Simeon’s hand on his shoulder and slowly his senses returned to normal. He looked out from the pavilion as the winner of the melee was being brought forward by the marshals.

  It was Jarek.

  Bellius stepped forward to applaud his son who was surrounded by a gaggle of his friends. They were all celebrating his victory but they were also laughing uproariously. Something had obviously tickled their fancy.

  Jarek stepped away from his friends and, looking up at his father, he raised a finger as if he were scolding a naughty child. Bellius placed a hand on his chest and raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Who, me!’

  Realisation dawned on Falco.

  Bellius had planned it all along. One way or another he had contrived to have several of the contestants ‘choose’ Malaki as their first target in the melee. By the time they realised what was going on it was too late. Malaki was out.

  Falco’s thin hands clenched into fists, but as he turned towards Bellius he felt Simeon’s grip tighten on his arm.

  ‘No, Falco,’ said the old battle mage. ‘It would serve no purpose.’

  Falco tried to pull away, but even in his sixties Simeon had no problem restraining his feeble servant. Falco bit down on the frustration and turned away from the celebrations. He did not see the anger on Darius’s face nor the disgust on the face of Sir William. All he could feel was his own disappointment and that of his friend. Even the crowd seemed more subdued than was usual at the conclusion of the trials.

  Finally Bellius stepped forward to address them and he could not have been more full of himself.

  ‘People of Caer Dour,’ he began. ‘Today is a great day. Not only have eleven of our finest been chosen to train at the Academy of War, but one who has finished his training has returned home to us.’

  The crowd cheered as Darius rose to his feet.

  ‘It is many years since the shadow of madness darkened the reputation of this town.’

  Here more than one person cast a look in Falco’s direction.

  ‘But today that shame is wiped clean. Today we welcome home our new champion, the greatest battle mage that Caer Dour has ever known. Darius Voltario!’

  Darius was clearly embarrassed by Bellius’s exaggerated praise but he raised his hand to acknowledge the crowd’s enthusiasm as Bellius’s voice took on a more serious tone.

  ‘And how timely is his return.’ Bellius nodded gravely. ‘Surely we see the hand of fate at work. For even now a Ferocian army closes on our town, an army of the Possessed with a demon at their head.’

  The crowds cheerful enthusiasm evaporated as Bellius reminded them of the danger that was advancing on their homes.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bellius. ‘Surely fate is smiling upon us. For now we have a warrior who can stand against the demon that would claim our souls.’

  Bellius was getting into his stride, but Falco was deaf to his words. He felt no rousing of the blood. He felt only the bitter pain of disappointment and a growing sense of hate.

  ‘The Ferocian army broke through the Illician defences,’ Bellius went on. ‘But it will not break the men of Valentia, and today we have seen why. The warriors of Valentia are the finest in all the Seven Kingdoms. Today we fought in a spirit of comradeship and competition. But tomorrow many of you will ride out to fight for our very survival. So I declare this a day of special celebration, a day of triumph. And I declare the trials ov...’

  ‘Wait!’

  The single word carried the weight of conviction and people looked round to see who it was that had spoken. They looked to Sir William Chevalier, to Darius and even to Simeon, but no one looked in the direction of Falco Danté.

  Clearly annoyed at being interrupted Bellius was about to speak once more.

  ‘Wait!’ repeated Falco and now there was no mistaking the speaker.

  People looked at him in disbelief, but Falco was beyond caring.

  ‘The trials are not over,’ he said, holding Bellius’s seething gaze. ‘I have a challenge to make.’

  ‘You?’ said Bellius in a tone that could not have been more scornful. ‘You have a challenge to make?’

  ‘I do.’

  Bellius was clearly furious at what he saw as a ridiculous proposition, but everyone knew that, servant or not, Falco was within his rights.

  ‘Let us hear it then,’ said Bellius with a mocking grin. ‘Who do you wish to challenge?’

  ‘The challenge comes not from me,’ said Falco. ‘I speak on behalf of another.’

  ‘Who?’ snapped Bellius and his tone made it clear that his patience was nearing its end.

  ‘Malaki de Vane,’ said Falco.

  ‘The blacksmith’s son?’ sneered Bellius, but now his grin seemed just a little forced. ‘The one who was just knocked out in the first round of the melee?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Well,’ laughed Bellius as if he expected everyone to agree that this was utterly preposterous. ‘Well,’ he said again when people simply waited for him to continue. ‘To make such a challenge you will need two votes of confidence, one from the warrior class and one from the nobles.’

  Now his smile grew more confident for he could think of no one who would sanction such a challenge. He was about to dismiss the whole affair when Simeon stepped forward to stand at Falco’s side.

  ‘I vote for the challenge of Malaki de Vane.’

  The pavilion wa
s suddenly filled with gasps and whispers of surprise and the muttering spread outwards as word of the challenge reached the crowd.

  From the corner of his eye Falco saw Malaki’s father leading his son forward to stand before the pavilion. Malaki still looked utterly dejected and when he glanced up at Falco his expression seemed to suggest that he did not relish the idea of being made to look a fool twice in one day. But Falco ignored his friend’s silent entreaty.

  ‘Fine!’ snapped Bellius, who could not believe that this farce had been allowed to go so far. ‘That’s one vote from the noble class. Now all you need...’

  ‘You mistake me!’ said Simeon, cutting him off. ‘I do not speak as a noble. I vote as one from the warrior class.’

  ‘But your house?’ objected Bellius. ‘Your wealth and lands?’

  ‘A gift,’ said Simeon, ‘from a friend, long dead.’

  Bellius laughed as if he were surprised to have been so duped. But now his laughter and his smile were genuine.

  ‘Well then,’ he said. ‘All we need now is a vote from the noble class.’ Here he looked round at his fellow nobles with a thinly veiled threat in his eyes. ‘Who will second this challenge?’

  ‘I will!’ said Falco.

  Stunned disbelief echoed round the pavilion as all eyes turned once again to Falco.

  ‘What?’ said Bellius. ‘You! A servant!’

  Many of the nobles had begun to laugh as if this was all some kind of ill-judged joke but then Simeon spoke again.

  ‘Once again you are mistaken,’ said the old battle mage calmly. ‘Falco Danté is not a servant, but the son of a noble lord. He has merely chosen to serve.’

  People were speechless. Even the whispers had ceased, but Bellius was beside himself with indignation.

  ‘He was sworn into service to pay for his father’s crimes!’

  ‘No, Bellius,’ said Simeon. ‘He was not. He passed into my care as part of a promise that I made to his father.’