The wordsmiths and the w.., p.4
Battle Mage: Aquila (The Souls of Wrath Book 2), page 4
When the ceremony was over, Tân had alighted on the Dragon Stone, looking at Aquila with a question in his mind.
‘Yes,’ replied Aquila. ‘Until death.’
Ela moved to stand at her husband’s side.
‘Until death,’ she repeated, taking Aquila’s hand as she looked into the dragon’s eyes. ‘And even to the ending of the world.’
Now, sitting with Aquila on a couch in their bedroom, Ela had to admit that in many ways, the magi had been right. The enemy had tried to use Aquila’s love against him, and their married life was lived in precious fragments between the demands of war. And yet, given the chance to change her fate, Ela would still choose to marry the man she loved.
That love was like a fire in her chest, and Ela put a hand to the dragon pendant around her neck, almost as if she expected it to feel hot. But no… the silver pendant felt cool. Leaning against her husband’s chest, Eleanora Danté gave a sigh.
‘What is it?’ asked Aquila.
‘Nothing,’ said Ela, her gaze drifting over to Aquila’s sword, which hung beside his armour in the corner of their bedroom. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could almost feel the humming presence of the blade.
‘Tell me,’ said Aquila and Ela paused.
‘It’s just that sometimes I wish I had your powers,’ she began. ‘Or some of them, at least.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like your sword and armour,’ Ela went on. ‘They are imbued with magic and power.’
‘And…’ prompted Aquila.
‘I just wish I could imbue something with power… something for you to carry with you when you return to the fight.’
Glancing down, Aquila noticed how Ela was toying with the dragon pendant he had bought for her. He knew her heart was as strong as any knight fighting at the front, and he knew she dreamed of doing more.
‘Hold the pendant in your hand,’ he told his wife.
Mindful of the sudden seriousness in his voice, Ela did as he said, holding the dragon pendant as Aquila’s larger hand closed around hers.
‘Now,’ said Aquila. ‘Think of the love that binds us together.’
Tears sprang to Ela’s eyes as she summoned the passion that burned in her chest, and then she gasped as a halo of golden flames appeared around Aquila’s hand.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he told her. ‘The flames will not harm you.’
Closing his eyes, Aquila tried to remember how the magi had used their abilities to probe his mind as they helped him to control his powers. He did not have the discipline or training of a mage, but slowly the flames grew fiercer as he sensed something of the love his wife felt for him. The sheer strength of that love humbled him as he tried to combine it with his own battle mage power.
‘Now, focus on the pendant,’ he told Ela. ‘Try to hold a picture of it in your mind.’
Ela’s eyes were now also closed, and her dark lashes were moist with tears as she fought to hold a picture of the dragon pendant in her mind. Even though she was thinking of what she felt for Aquila, Ela could not help but add the love she felt for the child that was growing in her womb.
‘For my eagle and my falcon,’ she thought with all her heart.
Still holding Ela’s hand, Aquila frowned as he allowed the flames to sink first into his own hand and then into his wife’s. He used fortification to protect her flesh from the fire, but he allowed something of its heat to seep into the metal of the pendant and, as if from a distance, he heard a soft ringing note, a sound that was reminiscent of the note he heard during the forging of his sword.
‘I can feel it!’ said Ela as she opened her hand to reveal the pendant that was now hot to the touch. ‘I can definitely feel it,’ she insisted as the metal quickly cooled. ‘Like an echo of the power in your sword.’
She spoke as if Aquila might not believe her, but she need not have worried.
To Ela, the impression of love in the pendant was vague and elusive, the merest hint of a half-remembered dream. But to the perception of a battle mage, it was like a fire glowing in the darkness, like a beloved song, a warm embrace, or a cool hand on a fevered brow. It was the love that a woman had for a man and the love that a mother had for her child.
Once again, Aquila shook his head in wonder.
‘I was right,’ he thought. ‘For all the powers of a battle mage, there is nothing greater than this.’
Three days later, Aquila and Ela found themselves waiting at the edge of town with half the people of Caer Dour. With murmurs of excitement and expectation, they gazed down upon the twisting road that led up the valley towards them.
‘I can see them!’ cried a boy who was straddling the tiled roof of a house.
Others began edging forward, and it was only a matter of moments before a group of people came into view. Half a mile down the valley, a line of about people could now be seen. Some riding and some leading horses, they continued up the valley until they reached the crowds waiting for their return. It was the volunteers who had ventured into foreign lands to help with the war.
There was Sir Gerallt Godwin and Lord Cadell, two nobles who had chosen to play their part in the war. There were several healers and some broad-shouldered youths who had travelled to the front for a taste of adventure. Now, they returned as seasoned men with the shadow of fear darkening their gaze.
A small unit of archers had also joined up, and people whispered as they noticed that Fletcher Reese was now missing an eye. He was clearly the oldest in the group, but he could outshoot most of the younger archers, and he could still draw a bow that many of them would struggle to bend.
But there were also notable absences and a chorus of wailing rose up among the crowd as earlier reports of casualties were now confirmed. In this latest sortie, four men and one woman had failed to return, and the grieving families could only hope that they were buried in some Beltonian field. That they had died was bad enough, but the idea that they might have been taken by the Possessed was too unthinkable to bear.
Standing together, Aquila and Ela watched as the people of Caer Dour welcomed back their own. There were tears and laughter and many a tight embrace, but there was one man who had no family to greet him, at least no family that was related by blood.
Helping an anxious-looking woman down from his dapple grey horse, Simeon le Roy passed Stoltur’s reins to his housekeeper, a pleasant-faced woman by the name of Fossetta Pieroni. Fossetta was clearly pleased to see him and yet she made a ‘stop fussing’ gesture when he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Smiling at Fossetta’s discomfiture, Simeon guided the anxious woman through the crowd. With one arm across her shoulders, he shielded her from the exuberant well-wishers as he made his way towards Aquila.
‘I was beginning to think you’d got lost,’ teased Aquila as he stepped forward to embrace his friend.
‘It’s all right for you,’ replied Simeon. ‘A few flaps of a dragon’s wings, and you’re home.’
‘You do know that dragons have to rest,’ replied Aquila. ‘They can’t fly all day with an armoured human on their back.’
For all their strength, a dragon’s body was only about the size of a small horse, which meant that an armoured human represented a significant burden when flying.
‘Yes,’ said Simeon. ‘But you didn’t have to spend three days in a boat full of seasick Valentians, followed by five days of saddle-sore on twisting mountain paths.’ Giving Aquila a shove, he turned to greet Ela, then stopped. ‘Wait! Are you?’ he blurted, looking from Ela’s stomach to her face and back again. ‘Is she?’ he managed, switching his gaze to Aquila.
‘Yes, she is,’ said Ela with a smile, and Simeon pulled her into a tight hug before suddenly letting her go as if he might have hurt her.
The three friends drew close together until Ela noticed the woman standing close by. Head bowed and arms wrapped around her body, the woman had the dark hair and colouring of someone who came from the south.
‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Simeon, inviting the woman to come closer. ‘This is Heçamede Asclepios, a healer from the southern kingdom of Thraece.’
With a strong jawline and fine features, the woman had a striking face, but her dark eyes bore a dull and haunted look. Aquila was all too familiar with this look. It was the look of someone who had experienced the true horror of the Possessed.
‘She hasn’t anywhere to go,’ continued Simeon. ‘So, the others thought she would be welcome in Caer Dour.’
‘And so she is,’ said Ela, stepping forward to place a gentle hand on Heçamede’s arm.
‘I’ve plenty of room in the villa,’ continued Simeon. ‘And Fossetta can make up the…’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ela. ‘Your villa is lovely,’ she added. ‘But it’s right in the middle of town. I’m sure Heçamede would appreciate a little peace and quiet until we find her a place of her own.’
Heçamede appeared uncertain, but she seemed reassured by Ela’s kind and confident tone.
‘And until then,’ Ela continued, ‘she is welcome to stay with us.’
Aquila and Simeon exchanged a smile. It was typical of Ela to take in a complete stranger without a second thought. With a few final words, they left the crowd of townsfolk and followed the smaller road leading off to the Danté estate. They settled Heçamede in a suite of her own with a balcony that caught the morning sun.
Heçamede remained sombre and quiet, but the combination of kindness and normality began to ease her fears. Slowly, the traumatised woman began to talk, but Ela could sense that something else, something particular, weighed on the healer’s mind. It was four days later, when Simeon was over for a meal, that the dam holding back her emotions finally began to fail.
‘She pushed herself too far,’ Simeon told Aquila as the two men sipped brandy beside the dining room fire. ‘Even when her husband was killed, she refused to leave the front, always insisting that she had travelled there to help.’
Together the two men looked out through the glazed doors where Ela and Heçamede sat on the veranda wrapped in blankets and sipping brandy of their own. The two women talked quietly until Heçamede grew quiet in the way she did when thinking about the war. For a few minutes, they sat together in silence until Eleanora spoke.
‘Is the war really as bad as they say?’ she asked.
‘Worse than you can imagine,’ Heçamede replied.
‘So, tell me about them,’ said Ela in a firm but gentle tone.
‘Tell you about who?’
‘The ones you couldn’t save,’ said Ela and finally, Heçamede wept.
Back in the dining room, Simeon shook his head in wonder. ‘How does she always know what to say?’
Aquila shrugged. ‘She just does,’ he said with a smile. ‘Somehow, she always does.’
The Disavowed
High in the mountains of Illicia, the young battle mage stared in horror as all his dreams were crushed. With a clear mind and an open heart, he had sent his call out into the world. Like the tolling of a mighty bell, his summoning had gone forth, rolling across time and space to the land where dragons live beyond the Endless Sea. And then he waited. With seven powerful magi hidden among the rocks, he waited to see if his summoning would be answered. And sure enough, it was. But then, as the magnificent creature grew closer, all his hopes were reduced to ash, for the dragon that answered his summoning was black. And, as everyone knows…
Black dragons are the enemy of humankind.
Black dragons are mad.
*
Fire raged on the Dragon Stone of Thraece. With a will of steel, the young battle mage put aside the crushing disappointment and focused his power on the black dragon that was trying to kill them all. In the light of the setting sun, the great beast had appeared, a black shape that filled his heart with grief. All his hopes had come to nought as the dragon landed, heedless of the humans concealed by the magi’s power. For weeks seven powerful magi had been preparing for this possibility, the tragic possibility that the dragon answering the summoning might be black.
Even as the mighty creature came to ground, the magi cast their net, a web of magical cords binding the dragon and holding it down. Even with their combined strength, the terrifying beast almost broke free, but the magi were not alone. With the strength of will that only a Great Soul could muster, the young battle mage had hardened his heart and walked forward to end the creature’s life.
Try as they might, the magi could not prevent the dragon from attacking, and one died in fire before the battle mage struck it down. A lance of light stabbed into the dragon’s side and pierced not one heart but two. For only in the final moment did the young battle mage realise what he had done.
He had killed his sister-in-arms.
The mirror of his soul was dead.
*
On the sea cliffs of Beltane, the young battle mage looked down as the light went out of his dragon’s gaze. Just moments ago, those fierce golden eyes had been filled with fury, a murderous rage that consumed the dragon’s heart. The young man had heard the stories about the madness of black dragons, but a part of him had refused to believe it. Only when he felt the anger and hatred for himself did he realise that all the tales were true.
Using all their strength, the magi held the creature down, but their spells alone were not enough. Without the battle mage, the dragon would have broken free, and all the magi would have died. The young warrior had saved them all, yet his heart felt suddenly empty… desolate, bereaved, broken.
Staring into the dragon’s eyes, he saw the frown fade from its noble brow, saw its mighty chest heave out a final breath, and then it was gone. The magnificent creature was dead, and the battle mage was the agent of its doom.
Now, he was deaf to the praising words of the magi and blind to any role he might still play in the world. He had killed the thing that should have stood beside him, and the horror of this act finally eclipsed his soul. He had killed something glorious, and the world would never forgive him, for he would never forgive himself.
*
Behind the visor of their helms, three young battle mages cried tears that would not flow.
Beneath the armour on their chests, three hearts grew cold.
And deep within their swords, the ringing note of steel was stilled.
They had saved the magi and saved themselves, but at what cost?
How could they confront evil after committing such an act?
How could any sense of humanity include such men as they?
By their own power, and by their own hand, these men were Disavowed.
From a Burning Shadow
Deep in the Forsaken Lands of Beltane, Bellator Prinos was doing battle with a demon. Ten feet tall with powerful arms and back-bent legs, the demon had thick chisel-like claws that could cleave through steel, but Bellator evaded its attacks with ease. He and Illviðri had already inflicted several serious wounds, and the demon was becoming desperate.
Dusk was falling, and the dim valley was suddenly illuminated as the demon spewed out a screed of glowing bile. Moving quickly, Bellator dodged to one side, avoiding the stream of burning fluid which was suddenly cut off as he whipped his sword across the demon’s throat. With a gurgling moan, it collapsed in a heap, the grass around it smoking as its black flesh dissolved into a pool of molten rock.
Bellator drew a breath as Illviðri came to stand beside him. Together, they looked down at their vanquished foe. The demon was dead, but their minds were troubled. This was not the entity they had sensed a few days ago. This was a minor Duke, a dangerous enemy but no real threat to Bellator and his ‘Storm’.
Something was wrong.
Demons like this normally avoided a confrontation with a battle mage, especially when that battle mage was accompanied by a dragon. But this demon had remained in the open, even as he and Illviðri had begun their attack.
No… something was definitely wrong.
Stepping back from the glowing remains, Bellator turned to survey the valley. All was quiet… no hordes of Possessed, no thundering bestiarum, just a single demon that was easily dispatched.
Suddenly Illviðri snarled, and now Bellator could feel it too… evil; evil so strong that he wondered why they had not sensed it before. Beside him, Illviðri lowered his head and flexed his steel-hard claws.
Evil.
This… this was what had drawn them so deep into enemy lands. Bellator gripped his sword and raised his shield as he offered up a quick prayer to the eternal Flame of the Tribes. And then they appeared.
To the left, to the right, ahead and behind – the grass of the valley blackened and burned as four demons rose up from the infernal plane. Four muscular titans, each bigger than the demon they had just slain. Hulking creatures with powerful shoulders and black skin riven with cracks that glowed with fire.
Like the monster they had just killed, such demons normally boasted vicious teeth and claws. Some were armoured giants wielding axes or swords, but these enormous creatures carried only chains. They were huge and terrifying, but there was something else… something more powerful, something worse.
Bellator turned at a sudden sound, a harsh sound like the ominous clack of a mortician bird’s bill.
‘Clack… clack, clack, clack!’ came the sound, almost as if it were laughing.
And now a fifth demon appeared, seven feet tall and heron-thin, with hunched shoulders and a cloak that was frayed like rags or the scraggly feathers of some carrion bird. Its bald head was mottled pink, and the beak that clacked was long and straight. But the demon’s eyes were almost human… sickly grey, knowing, shrewd and cruel.
Up from a burning shadow, the bird-like demon rose, clutching the shaft of a tall scythe as it stepped into the world of men. It glanced at the dragon. Then, it looked at the battle mage.
And smiled.
The Ending of the World
In Caer Dour there followed a few weeks of healing in body, mind and soul. Heçamede stood more upright, and the dull glaze of trauma slowly faded from her eyes. Gone were the slumped shoulders as she began to resemble the strong Thracian woman she had always been. She even began helping the local healers in town, but Ela insisted that there was no rush for her to find a place of her own.
