Battlemage Page 3

  The others were an odd group, two dressed in brightly coloured clothing like jesters, and a thick-shouldered man who looked more like a blacksmith. The smith was uneasy, constantly fidgeting and clenching his fists.

  The last Battlemage was a small man with jet-black skin and a wide face who Balfruss recognised as one of the First People, the tribes who lived on the coast, north of Seveldrom.

  King Matthias drew his welcome to a close, and from the broad smile on Darius’s face, Balfruss knew it had been the right length to satisfy desert customs. After giving their names his friends resumed their seats and the King’s expression turned grim.

  “The King of Zecorria is dead,” said the King, his voice echoing around the room. “His son, Taikon, now sits on the throne and he’s declared war on Seveldrom under false pretences. He’s accused me of committing heinous religious crimes and with this he was able to form a pact with Morrinow. The other nations in the west were coerced or crushed to form an alliance. An army unlike any we’ve seen before marches towards my border. Our intelligence suggests that with them comes a man known as the Warlock, a powerful Battlemage with several apprentices. I have asked you here today because of him. We’ll speak again shortly, but for now, please introduce yourselves.”

  Taking the initiative two brightly dressed men stepped forward to greet the King. Balfruss noticed both were sweating despite the room being pleasantly cool. It was also unusual to approach the throne without being asked. A couple of royal guards drew their swords and stepped forward but the King waved them back.

  “Greetings your Majesty,” said one of the men with a florid bow. “I am the Great Samkin. Thank you for your seeing us. We hope to serve you well.”

  The King pursed his lips and one eyebrow quirked slightly. Balfruss started to laugh, but Vannok gave him a vicious glare and he turned it into a cough. Darius was frowning and seemed on the cusp of action, but his rigid traditions would not allow him to interfere.

  There was a long pause before the King spoke again. “And how many years did you train at the Red Tower?”

  “Seven,” squeaked one of the men, nervously wiping sweat from his eyes.

  “And what did you learn?”

  “I can control storms, unmake stone, summon fire and see the future,” said one of the men, his robe covered with sun and moon symbols that had been sewn on.

  “I can talk to animals,” blurted the other.

  Balfruss laughed and this time he couldn’t contain it. A few of the others were smiling, except Darius and the smith.

  “Perhaps a demonstration?” enquired the King.

  “I’m very tired from my journey,” said Samkin, ignoring the laughter echoing around the room. “But my strength will soon return.”

  As Samkin tried to step back all eyes fell on Balfruss, who was still laughing. Despite the frowns he struggled to regain his composure.

  “My apologies, your Majesty,” said Balfruss, standing up and bowing deeply to the throne, “but these two men are charlatans. I assume that if pressed, they planned to trick you with sleight of hand. They don’t have the ability to touch the Source.”

  “You can tell just by looking at them?”

  “Yes, your Majesty. I can feel a kinship with my brethren,” he said, gesturing at those beside him. “There is a pulse. An echo between us.”

  “He’s lying,” said one of the jesters. His bravado was spoiled by the tremor in his voice.

  “A demonstration then,” said Balfruss. He waited until the King gave permission before walking forward. Balfruss positioned himself opposite the two men who suddenly looked very pale. “As I’m sure you know, one of the first lessons is the physical manifestation of your will. Combine your strength and push me across the room.”

  “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  Balfruss showed his teeth. “Try.”

  Both men began by waving their arms and then one made strange whooping noises. The other chanted disjointed words, but nothing happened.

  “Is that it?”

  The two men looked at each other and then nodded.

  Balfruss clapped his hands together and the charlatans were lifted into the air and thrown backwards. They slammed into the wall and hung off the ground as he stalked towards them. Their clothing was pressed flat against their bodies and they struggled to breathe as he leaned towards them.

  “I can command storms, summon fire and unmake stone. Animals have nothing interesting to say and no one can see the future, because it has not been written,” growled Balfruss. “It’s dangerous to meddle with things you don’t understand.”

  “Enough,” said the King, moving to stand beside Balfruss. “Let them down.”

  Balfruss released the two men and they dropped to the floor in heaps. One was on the verge of tears and the other unable to look him or the King in the eye.

  “What are your names?” asked the King.

  “Sam.”

  “Paedr.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “It’s a tiny village, Sire, right on the border with the west. Hasn’t got no name.” The speech of both men had suddenly become less formal.

  “We came here ’cos everyone left. Emptied out their homes and come east.”

  “We knew the war was coming,” said Paedr, “and needed work. Didn’t mean to upset no one. Pretending to be a Battlemage seemed like the best way to get fed. We went two weeks without, besides what we could forage.”

  “We didn’t want to starve,” said Sam, glancing briefly at the King. “We’re sorry we lied, Sire.”

  “And what did you do before coming here?” asked the King.

  “Worked the land for a local farmer. But Paedr’s good with numbers. Kept the books straight for everyone when taxes was due. Not many in our village can write or do their numbers.”

  The King gestured at his daughter, who stepped forward.

  “I think they will be able to help Jonkravish,” said Talandra. This was the first time Balfruss had seen the Princess and it was obvious she took after her mother. She was tall with a willowy build, whereas her brothers were big men with broad shoulders like their father. Her hair was long and blonde, held back in a simple plait, whereas their dark hair was cut short. Unusually she was dressed in trousers and a long shirt that concealed much of her shape, but no one would mistake her for a man.

  “Who’s Jonkravish?” asked Sam.

  “Our quartermaster,” said Talandra, turning towards the two men. She gestured to someone at the back of the room, who stepped forward out of the shadows.

  “This is Jonkravish,” said Talandra, nodding towards the Morrin. Like all of his people the quartermaster had a slightly wedge-shaped face, pointed ears, horns and yellow eyes. The two charlatans were visibly unsettled by him and were unable to meet his unwavering stare.

  “He will give you a bed, meals and a job.”

  “We’re not getting the lash? Or killed?” said Sam.

  Talandra’s smile was warm and generous. “No, but your jobs will not be easy. He is not an easy man to please.”

  “We can do it,” said Paedr, a second ahead of Sam.

  Balfruss approached the two charlatans as they turned to leave.

  “I’m sorry, Sir,” said Sam. “We didn’t mean no upset.”

  “I am sorry,” said Balfruss, offering his hand. “I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have.”

  They looked at his hand as if it were a poisonous snake, but eventually both shook it before following the quartermaster out of the room.

  “Perhaps you could introduce the others,” suggested the King as he resumed his seat on the throne. “And yourself.”

  “I am Balfruss, Majesty. I know you’ve already met Darius, and his wife Eloise, but he’s also my Blood Brother.” The King and his Generals looked nonplussed, but Talandra nodded, familiar with the title and honour bestowed on him. As a reward for his efforts in the desert kingdoms the King had allowed Darius to make Balfruss family, even though they were no
t related. It made Balfruss part of one of the most powerful families in the desert, and part of their line of inheritance.

  “The others I don’t know by name,” apologised Balfruss, “but I recognise a Kálfe of the First People.”

  The little tribesman stepped forward with a nod towards Balfruss. His flat face was ritually scarred and his forearms were covered with faded red and blue tattoos that were almost black with age. Bone ornaments pierced his ears, and a necklace of reflective yellow stones was his only piece of jewellery. His feet were bare but after a lifetime without shoes the skin looked as tough as old leather. He wore a vest and a loose pair of breeches cut off at the knee to be polite, but normally his people went naked except for a scrap of cloth to cover their genitals.

  “I am Ecko Snapping Turtle,” he said, touching two fingers to his heart and then his forehead. “I came to help because you have always been good to my people. We still speak of your great king, Kiele, and we remember him in our prayers. He was the one who watched over us when we first came to your shores. I come from my people to honour him. I hope your Great Maker will watch over me while I am on his soil.”

  “Thank you, Ecko,” said the King.

  The big plain-faced man stepped forward as Ecko sat down. Balfruss was surprised to see how tall he was, managing to tower over Vann, the biggest in the room. “I’m Finn Smith,” he rumbled and that seemed to be all of it. His face was boyish, but Balfruss saw a terrible sadness in his blue eyes. “I was trained after the Grey Council left. Do you want me to show you?”

  The King glanced at Balfruss who shook his head very slightly. He could feel more than an echo of power coming from Finn, and he knew the others felt it too. Finn’s ability was wild and untamed. An immense force barely held in check by a thread of control. His training would have been rushed and it was possible Finn could prove to be as dangerous as the enemy.

  “There’s no need. Welcome Master Smith,” said the King.

  The last Battlemage, the weary man from Shael, stepped forward and bowed deeply to the throne.

  “I’m surprised and pleased to see you,” said the King. “The news we’ve received from your country has been limited but very worrying. Can you tell us what’s been happening?”

  The golden-skinned man shook his head and then looked at Balfruss. His purple eyes bored into Balfruss’s skull and for a moment he felt dizzy. A rushing sound filled his ears and somewhere in the distance he could hear the murmur of voices. Balfruss stumbled, but caught himself before he fell over.

  “Are you all right?” someone asked, but Balfruss was listening to the other voice in his head, the one that wasn’t his own. In his mind’s eye he saw golden-skinned people, a distant land of tall trees, and cities dotted with elegant spires.

  “His name is Sandan Thule,” said Balfruss, as he came out of his reverie. “And the news from his homeland is grave.”

  The King raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Before Balfruss could explain, the voice came again more quickly, and with it more horrific visions. A tide of blood flowed along streets and the screams of agony were so high pitched they barely seemed human. Balfruss cried out and fell to his knees as he was exposed to images worse than any nightmare. Somewhere in the distance someone was talking, asking him if he was all right, but they seemed so far away. Slowly the tide of memories receded and the intense emotions that came with them eased. After wiping his face Balfruss managed to stand up with help from Thule but his knees still felt weak.

  “I’m sorry. It was the only way,” came the echo of Thule’s voice in his mind.

  “Are you all right?” asked the King.

  “I will be,” replied Balfruss, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ve seen what’s happened to his people. The Mad King, Taikon, had already united the other nations in the west when his army came to Shael,” said Balfruss, relaying the words for Thule. “When diplomacy and bribery failed, he invaded Shael. They fought, but it only delayed the inevitable. There were too many. They tried to smuggle out the Queen and a few others, but all of them were caught, tortured and imprisoned. When the people heard about the Queen there was an uprising. A few escaped in the process, but not many.”

  “How did he escape?”

  As Balfruss turned to face the throne Thule pulled down the scarf covering the bottom half of his face. “He didn’t.”

  A fresh purple scar ran across Thule’s throat from where it had been cut. The wound was jagged, which was the only thing that had saved his life. It had stopped bleeding, but was still swollen.

  “He was beaten, tortured and then they slit his throat,” Balfruss explained. “It was badly done, so he lost his voice, but not his life. He woke in a mass grave on top of the bodies of his countrymen. This was only a few days ago.”

  The King came towards Thule with Talandra on one side and Graegor, the grizzled one-eyed General on the other. If Thule was intimidated he didn’t show it and stood his ground.

  “There are no words,” said the King, clasping Thule by the forearms.

  “He asks that you do not give up on them,” said Balfruss. “A resistance is forming, but it will not be enough to free Shael unless the alliance in the west is broken. He is here to help you win this war because it’s the best way to free his people.”

  “I will do all that I can to help your people. On my life, on my honour, I swear it,” said the King. “By the throne of Seveldrom and the iron in my blood, I swear it.”

  Such promises were not made lightly, and once given so publicly the King was bound by ritual and custom to see it through. Even if he died before fulfilling it, his successor was duty bound to uphold the promise. Thule bowed his head and gratefully returned to his seat.

  “I’m sure you’re all tired from your journey. I offer you my hospitality and suggest you all get some rest while you still can. The war is almost here and when it arrives, it could be a long time before any of us have a full night’s sleep again.”

  They all stood as the King left the room, followed closely by his children and Generals. The one-eyed General paused on his way out and looked across at Balfruss. For a moment Balfruss thought the General was going to approach, but something made him change his mind as he hurried away after the other warriors.

  The joy of being reunited with his friends faded quickly as the stark reality of what they were facing loomed in Balfruss’s mind. A war against an army of unprecedented size, led by a Mad King, a rogue Battlemage and his apprentices. Balfruss had come home to Seveldrom because his King had asked for aid, but now there were many reasons to fight and they were all standing in the room with him. They were his only family and he would do anything to protect them.

  Despite the threat, surrounded by more Battlemages than he’d seen in many years, Balfruss felt excitement mixed with his fear at the thought of what they could accomplish by working together. They could change the world.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Vargus walked through the Charas city barracks a few men nodded or waved in his direction. After three weeks among the Seveldrom army he was already well known. As a veteran the younger warriors often asked him for advice then keenly listened when it was grudgingly given. Those who wanted to live past the first day of the war paid attention. Novices and men new to the sword from other trades also took comfort from his presence. It gave them hope that it was possible for a common man to survive, even fighting on the front lines.

  A mature warrior with no rank was rare, but it happened on occasion. Vargus wore no medals, spoke plainly, and swore when it was appropriate. He drank with farriers and farmhands, warriors and merchants, and sometimes turned up for training resembling a three-day corpse after too many ales. He was also known to inspect the front window of a brothel from time to time. As far as everyone knew he was an ordinary warrior, the same as them.

  What some found most surprising was that after so much soldiering he wasn’t angry or bitter towards those in charge. When an order was given he followed it. In turn, office
rs liked him for his discipline and the example he set for others. More than one had bought him a drink and asked for a story.

  Three weeks of hard training had stripped the last of the fat from his waist and every muscle in his body ached in a way that made him feel alive. Blood pounded throughout his body, a rhythm of life that he embraced with all avenues of pleasure that were available. The noise of so many warriors preparing for war was as sweet as any music he’d ever heard. The clash of weapons and stink of so much leather being treated made his skin tingle. The tanneries were hard at work as craftsmen turned the famous Sorenson cows into the hardest leather armour known to man.

  In the distance came the repetitive hammering of smiths at work, turning out the last of the weapons. No man was without a sword or axe, but weapons were always lost or broken in battle. The King knew his business and was doing his best to make sure that everything was ready in time.

  “Vargus,” shouted Carnow. He was one of many southerners that had marched north under the banner of Graegor, the grizzled General. Everyone knew that it was Graegor’s tactics that had helped the King win several battles in the last thirty years.

  Carnow was rangy and red faced from a life spent living outdoors. Like other southerners he was dressed in a mix of green and browns to blend in, and had been trained since childhood with a blade and bow. He was more at home in a forest than a city, where his view of the stars was blocked by towers of stone.

  “Carnow.”

  “Drinks at the Fox and Glove tonight?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  Vargus scratched at his stubbly cheek before answering. “Bwillam’s asked me to look over another couple of units in training.”