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  ‘I am your friend, Falco Danté,’ the message said. ‘Servant or noble lord, I will always be your friend.’

  Falco’s green eyes shone brightly in reply then he watched as the blacksmith’s son was hoisted aloft and carried away to join the rest of the cadets who had been victorious in the trials.

  7

  The Magi

  And so the trials were over but not everyone was pleased by the way the day had ended. Many of the nobles shared the view of Bellius Snidesson that the rules had been stretched too far. To think that nobles like Jarek should have to share their glory with the son of a blacksmith. Wearing a scowl of anger Bellius stood to one side of the pavilion and the direction of his gaze made it clear whom he held accountable for the unacceptable events of the day.

  Falco tried to ignore the wave of ire directed towards him. All he wanted to do now was to go down and congratulate Malaki and then to leave the pavilion as quietly as he could. He took Simeon’s sword from one of the marshals and replaced it in the scabbard that Malaki had left on the edge of the pavilion then he turned to where his master stood at the end of the table.

  ‘Congratulations Falco,’ said the old battle mage as he fastened the sword belt around his waist. ‘Your harebrained scheme was a success.’

  ‘Thank you master,’ said Falco with a self-conscious smile.

  ‘Master?’ queried Simeon. ‘After today’s revelations?’

  ‘If it please you.’

  ‘Is the shame still so great?’ asked Simeon quietly.

  ‘I would feel more comfortable,’ answered Falco. ‘For a while at least.’

  ‘For a while then,’ said Simeon. ‘But you cannot hide in service forever.’

  Falco nodded his understanding.

  ‘Now, go and congratulate your friend.’

  Falco turned away and headed for the small flight of steps at the centre of the pavilion, but before he could go any further the emissary appeared at their foot and climbed the steps towards him. He had a white towel pressed to his bloody nose and Falco hoped that he might pass by without stopping. For a moment it appeared that he would, but then the emissary stopped. Taking the blood-stained towel from his face he looked at Falco.

  ‘You have done your friend a great service today,’ he said quietly.

  Falco averted his eyes as the emissary looked around the pavilion, taking in the tangible hostility that was clearly directed towards him.

  ‘I hope it was worth the price.’

  ‘It was,’ said Falco, his green eyes flashing up to meet the emissary’s gaze.

  The emissary nodded and seemed about to move away, but once again he paused.

  ‘I never met your father,’ he said. ‘I only ever heard of what he did.’

  Falco’s face burned with humiliation.

  ‘But I can tell you this, Falco Danté. In his years as a battle mage your father saved many thousands of lives,’ the emissary waited until Falco met his gaze once more. ‘You can be proud of the way he lived,’ he said. ‘If not perhaps of the way he died.’

  Falco swallowed hard and bowed his head awkwardly.

  The emissary ignored his discomfiture and looked instead to Simeon who stood a few steps behind him.

  ‘Scarlet consumption, you say?’

  ‘Since the age of five,’ replied Simeon.

  The emissary pursed his lips as if he remained unconvinced.

  ‘You have some knowledge of the condition?’ asked Simeon as if he could see the doubt on the emissary’s face.

  ‘A little,’ the emissary said. ‘The rash,’ he went on, pointing to Falco’s scalp, ‘is it worse in the winter or the summer months?’

  Falco shifted awkwardly as the two men discussed his condition.

  ‘The cold aggravates his lungs,’ answered Simeon. ‘But the hot days of summer are worse.’

  The emissary nodded as if this confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘Was he ever caught in a fire?’

  ‘He was.’

  Once again the emissary nodded slowly.

  ‘My sister suffered from a complaint that was mistaken for the crimson lung. By the time we learned the truth she was too weak to survive the cure. Had her true complaint been recognised earlier, she might not have died so young.’ He looked at Falco once more as if the sight of him brought back sad and painful memories. ‘You might want to speak again with his physician,’ he said. ‘Ask them about the spores that are released when silver pine trees burn.’

  Simeon inclined his head respectfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will do as you suggest.’

  The emissary gave Falco a final searching look. Then he pressed the towel back to his nose and moved away.

  Falco turned to his master and the old battle mage could sense the question in his eyes. He held up a cautionary hand.

  ‘We’ll see Heçamede in the morning. Now go.’

  Falco stumbled down the steps in something of a daze. Heçamede Asclepios was one of the town’s healers. She had treated Falco since he was a child.

  Not scarlet consumption.

  Proud of his father.

  Could either of these things be possible?

  In spite of the injuries he had suffered during their final encounter, Simeon had always spoken in defence of Falco’s father, but to hear it from someone outside the town, from the Queen’s own representative no less. Well, that was something altogether different. That was something that he could almost believe.

  ‘Falco!’

  Falco looked up to see Malaki’s father walking towards him.

  ‘Malaki,’ Balthazak shouted over his shoulder. ‘Here he is! Here’s the crazy fool who almost got you killed!’

  Falco grimaced then winced as Balthazak swept him into a bear hug and planted a bristly kiss on his cheek.

  ‘My, but you always were a free spirit,’ said the blacksmith holding Falco at arm’s length. ‘Just like your father.’

  Falco lowered his eyes then looked up as Malaki appeared beside them. Well-wishers continued to clap him on the back and ruffle his hair but the worst of the crush was over. People were beginning to disperse.

  ‘How’s the mouth?’ said Falco.

  ‘Sore,’ said Malaki, taking a bloody cloth from his mouth.

  ‘Well, if you will go challenging one of the Adamanti?’ said Balthazak.

  ‘Yeah, right!’ scoffed Malaki, but his father just raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  Malaki looked horrified. ‘No,’ he said, fixing Falco with an accusing glare. ‘I did not know.’

  ‘Don’t look at me!’ said Falco. ‘I didn’t know either. Well, not until it was too late,’ he added ruefully.

  ‘Hah!’ laughed Balthazak as if the whole thing were hilarious.

  He grabbed them both round the back of the neck and brought their heads hard against his own.

  ‘Marvellous!’ he said. ‘Bloody marvellous!’

  Then he kissed them both and with a final laugh he went off to join the people streaming from the field.

  A strange silence fell about them as the two boys watched him leave.

  ‘So,’ said Falco, trying to recapture something of the celebratory mood. ‘You’re off to Wrath.’

  ‘So,’ replied Malaki. ‘You’re a bloody nobleman!’

  For a few seconds they looked at each other, then great smiles spread across their faces and they fell into a tight embrace.

  ‘I’ll not forget what you did today,’ Malaki breathed into Falco’s neck.

  Falco ignored the crushing pressure that threatened to break his ribs. There was something satisfying about his friend’s great strength, something deeply reassuring. He was going to miss it.

  ‘Just a shame you couldn’t put up a better fight,’ said Falco as the two friends stepped back from each other.

  ‘What would you know, Pastry Boy!’ said Malaki giving Falco a shove that sent him stumbling backwards.

  ‘I know he whooped your ass,’ s
aid Falco rubbing his shoulder.

  ‘I know!’ said Malaki as if he were delighted to have been beaten so convincingly. ‘Did you see the way he fought? And he wasn’t even trying, not really. Can you imagine if he’d really been trying to kill me?’

  Instead of answering Falco just raised his eyebrows and pointed behind Malaki. Someone else had come to congratulate the blacksmith’s son, someone whom Falco was certain he would not want to overlook.

  ‘What? Oh,’ said Malaki as he saw Bryna Godwyn standing there.

  Bryna had taken the leather cord from her hair and her red curls spilled around her face and shoulders. Falco turned to his friend and was not surprised to see him looking terrified.

  ‘Typical,’ thought Falco. ‘You face one of the Knights Adamant without flinching and yet you quail before a young woman who barely comes up to your chin!’

  ‘Congratulations Malaki,’ said Bryna, holding out a slender hand.

  ‘You...you...’ stammered Malaki and Falco just knew he was about to say, you know my name! ‘You too,’ he managed at last.

  Falco smiled as the two shared an awkward handshake but then something drew his attention back towards the pavilion. People in the tent were no longer looking out onto the tournament field. They were facing the other way, moving aside to make way for three figures in dark magisterial robes.

  The magi had arrived.

  Their preparations must be complete. It was time for Darius to get ready for the summoning.

  Feeling a flutter of nervous excitement Falco glanced quickly at his friend. Malaki and Bryna were doing their best to hold a normal conversation. This would be an ideal time for him to slip away without being missed. He dodged through the thinning crowds and made his way quickly back to the pavilion. He climbed the steps and moved to one side where he would be able to hear what was being said without being noticed. The magi possessed powers beyond the understanding of normal men and Falco was certain that if he got too close they would instantly ‘know’ what he intended to do.

  Of all the people in the world, the magi were the most learned and the most mysterious. Their arcane abilities granted them tremendous power and even Queen Catherine could not escape the influence of the magi. They commanded both respect and fear and most people viewed them with a measure of distrust, some even blamed them for the Great Possession, a terrible event in history when all the battle mages of the time had been killed when their dragons had become Possessed and turned against them.

  Until that time it was believed that dragons were immune to Possession and it had come as a terrible shock to find that they were not. Some believed that the magi had known that dragons were susceptible, known and said nothing. They had always been jealous of the battle mages’ power and people wondered if they had allowed the Great Possession to occur, only realising the depth of their mistake when all the battle mages and their dragons were dead.

  Some still talked of uncovering the truth but no one wanted to risk upsetting them because the magi play a critical role in the training of a battle mage and without the battle mages they would all be lost.

  Moving carefully, Falco edged his way closer as the three robed figures moved through the pavilion. The first was Morgan Saker, Caer Dour’s senior magi. The second was one of the magi from Wrath, while the third was not a fully-trained mage but an initiate, an apprentice mage who has yet to complete his training. The initiate was Meredith Saker, Morgan’s son.

  Falco watched as they stopped to talk to Bellius Snidesson and, as ever, Falco found himself mesmerised by the presence of the senior mage.

  It was Morgan Saker who had slain his father’s dragon. But it was also Morgan Saker who had pulled Falco from the blaze when, as a child, some vengeful soul had set fire to his family home. Falco could still remember looking up to see the tall figure of the mage striding towards him through the flames and clouds of smoke.

  He should have felt grateful, but then, as in all the years that followed, he had only ever felt afraid.

  For all his years Morgan Saker’s hair was still as black as coal. His skin was pale like Falco’s, but there was nothing sickly about his complexion, and his dark eyes were like fathomless pits giving onto the depths of all that he had learned. In every sense of the word he was a formidable man and for all their wariness, the people of Caer Dour were relieved that it was he who would be standing guard when Darius went to summon his dragon.

  From the corner of his eye Falco watched the three robed figures take their leave of Bellius and move to the front of the pavilion where Darius and the emissary were waiting to greet them.

  ‘Is everything ready?’ the emissary asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Morgan Saker.

  Falco saw Darius fill his lungs with a great indrawn breath, the first sign of nerves that the young man had displayed.

  ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘There’s a little over three hours before sunset.’

  The emissary nodded. ‘And the walk?’

  ‘An hour and a half, perhaps,’ said Morgan. ‘We have plenty of time.’ He looked at Darius as if he were gauging whether or not he was up to the challenge. ‘Are you prepared?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ replied Darius.

  ‘And if a black should answer?’

  ‘We shall kill it,’ said Darius.

  For a few seconds Morgan’s gaze searched Darius’s face for any sign of weakness or uncertainty. Finally he seemed satisfied.

  ‘Then let us go,’ he said.

  A sombre calm had descended on the tournament field. By now just about everyone had noticed the arrival of the magi. They knew why they were here, but the last time a dragon had come near the town of Caer Dour it had brought death and destruction. The excitement of the trials seemed to evaporate in the cool evening air. In a few days time their army would engage the Possessed. With Darius at their head they could defeat the demon and its army, but the presence of a dragon would ensure that many more survived who would otherwise be lost. So, despite their fear and reservations, the people of the town wanted Darius to be successful, to ascend the slopes of Mont Noir and send out his call, and to have it answered by a dragon.

  They watched as the young battle mage followed the magi out of the pavilion. They watched as Sir William fell in beside him, a solid presence to calm their hero’s nerves. They watched as the small group of men wound their way up towards the mountain before disappearing round a bend in the path. What they did not see was a slender figure leaving the pavilion and cutting away on a smaller track to the left of the path.

  If it took Darius Voltario an hour and a half to reach the ‘Dragon Stone’ it would take Falco at least twice as long. But he had three hours to make the climb, three hours before sunset. Even then he would never make it if he took the normal route. Instead he would go by Crib Goch, a narrow ridge that cut out almost two miles of the path that Darius would follow.

  He would need to move slowly, he would need to conserve his strength, but Falco had set his will to the task and, unlike his body, his will was not so weak.

  8

  The Summoning

  It took Falco an hour to traverse the knife-edge ridge known as Crib Goch. The peak of the ridge rose some six-hundred feet above the valley floor but Falco was unaffected by the dizzying height. He moved with care, resting frequently to catch his breath and look across the valley for any sign of Darius and the magi.

  A sudden gust of wind blew up around him and he tightened his grip on the stone. The air was growing colder and he glanced up at the sky. A ceiling of low cloud had rolled in and the light was starting to fade, but he was not concerned. The clouds were not threatening, but they did herald a change in the weather. Cooler air was moving in from the north. Autumn was bidding farewell to the last warmth of summer. It was the harsh cold of winter that lay on the horizon now.

  ‘But not tonight!’ thought Falco. ‘There will be no freezing rain tonight.’

  Confident that the weather would not break for
a day or two Falco continued to pick his way along the ridge. As his thoughts drifted he found himself going over what the emissary had said about his illness and his father. He had never felt proud of his father and was even ashamed of the deep sense of love he felt for him. And as for his ‘condition’... Well, it had always been assumed that he would die an early death. Few people with the Crimson Lung lived to see thirty.

  Could Heçamede be wrong?

  Could his illness be cured?

  Falco had known the healer all his life. Indeed, she had been present at his birth, a difficult birth that should have claimed both mother and child. Heçamede had managed to save Falco, but the life of his mother was beyond the skill of any physician to save and Eleanora Danté had died just two hours after the birth of her son.

  Falco paused near the top of the ridge. Thoughts of his mother always evoked a complex mixture of emotions. There was a strange sense of detachment as if the story involved someone other than himself. But then a hot surge of sadness and guilt would rise up inside him, cooled only by an overwhelming sense of loss.

  ‘Strange,’ he thought. ‘To miss so deeply someone you have never known.’

  Another gust of wind made Falco’s eyes water and as he blinked away the tears he saw movement on the mountainside ahead of him. Ducking down behind the top of the ridge he peered out as three robed figures came into view with Darius and the emissary behind them. They walked in single file, making steady progress up the mountain where four other magi would be waiting for them.

  Falco had timed it perfectly.

  They had another half hour’s climb to go, and that would take Falco more than an hour, but he still had time. He would be at the dragon stone before the sun started to set. He watched as Darius and the magi moved into a gully and disappeared from view. The entrance to the gully was a quarter of a mile away, but still Falco paused before breaking from cover. The ridge continued for a while before merging with the main body of the mountain and Falco tried not to rush as he scrambled over the crags to rejoin the main path.