The Battlemage by Taran Matharu
Then they were out of sight.
Fletcher felt the bitter tears stream down his face, even as Berdon silently put his arm around his shoulders.
“They’re gone,” Fletcher said.
Because his two friends had died fighting—and Raleighshire had fallen.
CHAPTER
59
ATHENA COULD NOT LINGER, for the demons that had battled Ignatius in the skies had finally returned. Fletcher hugged her to his chest when she landed beside him, absorbing the love and comfort that was there. He missed his friends.
The going was slow, the wagon overloaded with the wounded and the old. Even when the children got off to piggyback with their parents, the pace felt to Fletcher like that of a funeral procession. Here and there, he could see the signs of where the gremlins had passed on, a smattering of fruit rinds here, the droppings of a small mammal there. Blue and Halfear chittered happily at the sight, even sniffing dung and kneading it to determine their distance ahead.
As the minutes ticked by, Fletcher distracted himself with his responsibilities, making sure the boars were swapped out every half hour as they hauled their heavy load across the poor dirt road and sending Athena to keep an eye on the land behind them.
It took no more than an hour before she saw the dust cloud of the goblin pursuit, staining the horizon like a bruise. The goblins were traveling at a furious pace, of that he was certain.
And all the while his heart sank, twisting in his chest. Because as the enemy edged nearer, he knew they would not make it. Not to Corcillum.
They would be lucky if they even reached the bridge in time. But still, he pushed on. Watford Bridge was a place to do battle, where his soldiers could stand ten abreast and fight the goblins to the last man. Perhaps the rest of them would have a chance then, hiding among the rough, uneven landscape as the goblins turned their eyes on Corcillum.
“Genevieve, anything?” Fletcher called. The young officer was stumbling like a sleepwalker, her eyes fixed on the scrying crystal in her hands. She shook her head dumbly.
So they trekked on through the savannah, watched by curious antelopes and a lazy pride of lions. Fletcher kept back, hurrying along the stragglers and watching the ever-growing haze of dust that followed in their wake.
Soon Athena could see the gray forms of goblins that followed, ranging in a great horde that spread out over plains. The front-runners were no more than a few minutes behind now.
Fletcher heard calls ahead of him. There was an incline there, part of a broad hill, up which the dirt road continued before the bridge. The boars were struggling to pull their heavy load up the path, exhausted after their full-tilt pace across the savannah. Worse still, the track had become rutted after all the trade convoys that had passed that way in the recent months, and now the wheels spun weakly in the deep channels.
Berdon and the others added their weight to the back of the carriage, hoping to shift it upward, but it was no use—the boars refused to pull, one of them collapsing to its front knees in fatigue.
“Lord Raleigh,” Mason yelled.
Fletcher turned, only to see the first goblins advancing through the long grass toward them. They had less than a minute until they were upon them. Behind them, the hulking forms of the orcs could be seen in the shimmering heat, their war paint stark against their gray skin.
“Foxes, to me!” Fletcher called. “Berdon, get everyone off the wagon and over the bridge. We’ll fight our way back to you.”
But as Fletcher’s soldiers gathered wearily around him, Berdon was with them, accompanied by a dozen of their strongest colonists. A few carried felling axes with them, while others had pickaxes and kitchen knives.
“Thaissa and Millo are taking care of it,” Berdon growled, brandishing a hammer from his forge. “We won’t leave you to fight alone.”
“Berdon…,” Fletcher began.
“No!” Berdon shouted, seizing Fletcher by the shoulders. “I won’t lose you again. We stay together, no matter what.”
Fletcher stared up at his father’s face and saw the defiance there. There was no stopping him.
“Get behind us then,” Fletcher said, giving Berdon a grim smile.
The men formed up beside the carriage, and Fletcher cut the boars from their traces. The beasts collapsed to the ground, too tired to move. Behind them, the colonists carried the wounded up the hill, some already disappearing over the top. Fletcher only hoped he could hold the goblins long enough for them to hide.
Fletcher looked for Rotherham to give the order, or Sir Caulder, or even Rory. His heart twisted at the realization that they were not there. Genevieve’s eyes were dull and lifeless as she stumbled back to the wagon. She was still in shock.
It was up to him.
“Face the enemy and move back in crescent formation,” Fletcher ordered. “Watch your flanks!”
They moved back in a rough half circle, their poleaxes drooping in their tired arms. It was all so hopeless. On open ground, they wouldn’t last more than a few minutes.
The goblins were but a hundred paces away from them now, gathering their courage for a charge at the small band of survivors. But even as Fletcher began to hope that they might make it over the hill and to the narrow bridge beyond it, a horn sounded. And with a scream of hatred, the gray wave surged forward.
“This is it, Foxes,” Fletcher heard Kobe call out. “Let’s take a few of ’em with us.”
The soldiers gave a cheer, their thin voices briefly cutting through the blare of the bugle. Now Fletcher could feel a rumbling beneath his feet as the hundreds of goblins broke into a run, their shields raised, baying for blood.
But the noise that echoed out over the plains was not coming from the enemy. No. It was behind them. Fletcher turned to look at the hilltop, squinting in the sun that hung above its zenith.
The ground was shaking now, and Fletcher’s heart froze as a row of shadows appeared at the hill’s summit. The goblins had them surrounded.
“Form a schiltron,” Fletcher called desperately. “Berdon, Blue, get your people to the center!”
But there was no time—the figures on the hill were on the move, and Fletcher could hear the drum of hooves, see the glint of metal.
But these were no goblins.
They were dwarves, beards streaming in the wind as they rode their bristling boars in a thundering charge. They parted like a branching river around Fletcher’s small knot of fighters and tore into the scattered goblin runners, their battle-axes swinging, helmets burnished in the dawn light. And there was Othello at their head, wielding a great war hammer with long sweeps of his powerful arms.
“Run, Fletcher,” Othello bellowed.
“They came,” Fletcher breathed, hope flaring in his chest. And yet, even as their rescuers clashed with the enemy, he knew this would be no easy fight.
There were only a hundred riders, and behind the scattered front-runners the hordes were waiting with a massed wall of spears. A half-dozen dwarves were already down, their boars dead or dying from spear thrusts. The remainder balked at the row of points, turning and sweeping out alongside the lines. Fletcher knew what he had to do. The dwarves needed a gap in the wall of spears. He would not abandon Othello, not now.
“Charge,” he yelled. “For Hominum!”
They hurled themselves at the enemy, sprinting pell-mell down the incline, poleaxes stretched out in front of them. Screaming, they crashed into the lines of half-formed goblins, hammering aside the spears and stabbing at the shocked creatures with frenzied abandon. Othello bellowed an order.
“Fire!”
Blunderbusses unloaded sprays of buckshot into the gathered hordes, blowing ragged holes in their rough formation. Fletcher snarled, stabbing a goblin through its throat, Berdon’s hammer clearing the way by his side. Gremlins screeched underfoot, slashing their daggers to cripple the enemy before the poleaxes dispatched them with swift, brutal chops of their axe blades.
And then the boars were plowing into the gobl
Pain flashed as a spear sliced through Fletcher’s forearm, and Berdon roared to smash the culprit into bloody oblivion. Lightning crackled on their right, sending a score of goblins convulsing to their deaths. Fletcher saw Cress running over them, screaming her battle cry as she led the dwarves who had lost their boars in a charge, Tosk bounding at her feet. The reinforcements shored up Fletcher’s flanks as, together, their warriors pushed on through the savage masses, carving a path for the boar riders to exploit. He could hear the snorting of the porcine beasts behind him, see goblins reeling as they were gored by long, yellow tusks.
Now they had penetrated deep into the horde, a circle of struggling men and dwarves, enemies closing behind them. But the goblins were turning back, frantic with fear as they tried to escape the mad, suicidal onslaught of the courageous allies.
Fletcher suddenly found his blade slashing empty air, the goblins scrambling away from his small band of soldiers. He saw the blue glow of a spell, but before he could turn to it, a wall of noise rushed toward him. The shock wave threw him head over heels, the world flipping and spinning as he tumbled through the air. He landed in the grass, his sword still clutched in his hands.
There was blood on his lips as he staggered to his feet.
Then his mind reeled as he saw the devastation before him. A kinetic blast had blown a hundred goblins into oblivion in the center of the enemy army. Someone had used all of their mana in a single, brutal attack.
At the edges of the detonation, goblins stumbled dizzily, their weapons lost. There were at least a thousand still standing, with half as many again getting to their feet. Their screeches had been suddenly silenced by the explosion.
Now, they stared at the dwarves, still slaughtering those that had escaped the blast near the front lines of the battle; at the corpses of their brethren, thick on the ground.
And as one, they turned and ran.
It was a great exodus of gray, the orcs leading the pack in a mad bid to escape any pursuers. Weapons were discarded, and the slow were trampled underfoot as the wave of enemies pulled away.
Soon only the injured remained, limping as fast as they could while the dwarves finished off the remains of their front lines.
They had won. Fletcher collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as they released the khopesh. He felt Berdon’s arms wrap around him, and he buried his face in his father’s chest, gasping with relief.
“Onward!” a dwarf bellowed. “Chase them back to the jungles.”
The ground shook nearby as the boars galloped in pursuit.
“Infantry, with me,” he heard Cress order. “Kill the survivors.”
Fletcher pulled away, and Berdon lifted him to his feet. They stood there, too exhausted to join the slaughter of the goblins, many of whom lay wounded and dying among the messy row of corpses that stretched along their line of battle. Fletcher could see the corpse-laden swath they had cut behind him, a path of gray bodies and bloodstained grass. And there were green uniforms among them. He looked away; not wanting to see their faces. He couldn’t bear it. Not yet.
The gremlins and dwarves did not share his qualms, and Fletcher had to avert his eyes as they went about their bloody business. He was sick of all the death, all the killing. Already the vultures were circling above, waiting to feast. There was no glory here.
Then he heard a scream of anguish from Cress. Something was wrong. She was kneeling among the bodies, her head bowed. And there was a limp, bearded figure clutched in her arms.
A face he recognized.
“Othello,” Fletcher sobbed, staggering through the broken bodies. “No. No, no, no.”
He repeated the words over and over as he reached Cress, falling to his knees beside the dwarf.
“He’s gone,” Cress wept, brushing a curl of red hair from the young dwarf’s bloodstained forehead. “I couldn’t heal him.”
CHAPTER
60
FLETCHER TOOK THE DWARF’S hands in his, unable to believe it. He felt sick, the world spinning around him.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “He’s not dead. He’s not.”
In the distance, Fletcher saw Solomon’s craggy figure lumbering in pursuit of the goblins, oblivious to it all.
No, it couldn’t be. The Golem would know.
Then a bird screeched above. A Caladrius, flying high as it cried out in misery. And that was when Fletcher realized, the knowledge like a cold stone in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t Othello. It was Atilla.
His twin.
* * *
It was over. Humans, dwarves and elves alike wandered through the battlefield, dumbstruck by their victory. There were so many bodies. More even than at the Cleft.
“You saved us,” Fletcher said to Cress, wiping his eyes. “We didn’t think you were coming.”
They sat beside Atilla’s body, unable to leave him alone among the corpses. There were no more tears to be shed.
“It was Atilla who saved all of us,” Cress sniffed. “He ran right into their midst with our last mana vial and detonated the spell right there. These wounds … he knew he wasn’t coming back.”
Fletcher looked at his friend, who had given so much so that others could live. The dwarf looked almost peaceful, his face upturned to the still-warm skies.
“How did you find us?” Fletcher asked, trying to quell the tremor of emotion in his voice.
“It was Malachi,” Cress replied, staring out over the landscape, her knees hugged to her chest. “He found us. But the generals wouldn’t let us leave.”
She clenched her hands at the memory.
“Heaven knows we wanted to, but the front lines were being overrun. Thousands of orcs, charging out of the jungles. No warning, no preparation. The first hour was a slaughter.”
Cress looked at him, her eyes filled with sadness.
“And the demons. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The orcs were sending them to die, only to summon new ones with scrolls that they have been saving. They’ve been planning this for years.”
“What happened?” Fletcher asked, looking to the east, as if he could somehow see what was happening all those miles away.
“We fell back again and again. So many died. Tens of thousands. We’re losing ground, but it’s not over. At least, it wasn’t when I left.”
Silence. Fletcher could hardly believe it. They were losing.
“The king is hoping the elves will arrive in time to aid us,” Cress muttered. “He says their army left their lands a few days ago. They’re our last hope.”
“So, why did you come here?” Fletcher asked, horrified. “Hominum could fall, if it hasn’t already. You’re needed.”
“The king ordered it,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Malachi got to him too. Though I’m surprised the little Mite managed it—he was acting strangely when he left us. Like all the fight had gone out of him.”
Fletcher’s heart twisted at her words. The brave Mite had continued its mission even when its master had died. He didn’t have the strength to tell her what had happened to Rory.
“But it wasn’t to stop the goblins,” Cress continued, oblivious to the pain in Fletcher’s eyes. “Just the warning was enough for our generals to plan against a surprise attack from the rear. Nor was it to save Raleighshire. It was to save you, Fletcher.”
“Me?” Fletcher asked dumbly.
“There’s a reason we’re losing,” Cress said, speaking quickly now, as if she had remembered why she was there. “It’s Khan. His demon … it’s … it’s like a giant version of Ignatius. Only it’s armored, like a Wyvern.”
“A Dragon,” Fletcher breathed, his mind flashing back to the volcano, all those months ago.
“Our Celestial Corps tried to k
She trailed off.
“Except me,” Fletcher said, the realization leaving him numb.
He was immune to fire, and so was Ignatius. His fight was not over.… It was just beginning.
* * *
Fletcher wanted to wait for Othello to return from routing the goblins. To be there for him when he saw his fallen brother. But there was no time.
Fletcher gave a last farewell to his friends and soldiers, most unable to stand from injury or exhaustion.
“You come back, you hear?” Berdon choked as Fletcher hugged him good-bye.
“Depend on it,” Fletcher whispered.
A final embrace from Cress, all too brief as she took command of the scattered dwarves.
Then he was on Ignatius and limping into the sky.
The poor Drake was still suffering from the wounds he had sustained in the battle with the Phantaur, so their flight was erratic and slow. Fletcher could see the jagged holes in the demon’s wings, and blood had caked around the demon’s haunches, where a spear had penetrated deeply. They were nearly crippled, but had no choice. Nothing else stood a chance against the Dragon.
Cress had barely been able to treat Ignatius’s wounds, using her last trickle of mana to heal a scratch on the Drake’s forearm. Now they circled the battlefield, orienting themselves. In the distance, Fletcher could see Othello and his dwarves chasing the goblin army, leaving a trail of dead stragglers in their wake. He sent them a silent thanks and angled Ignatius away.
As they turned, Athena gliding alongside them, Fletcher heard a high-pitched cry from above him. The Caladrius was spiraling down out of the clouds, appearing for all the world like a dove descending from heaven. It landed gently on Ignatius’s back, and Fletcher saw a strange aura around the demon, a blurry haze along its edges.
The Caladrius was fading back into the ether, its master gone, the call of the wild taking hold of it. Fletcher wondered at the demon, its blue eyes boring into his as it spread its long, delicate wings across Ignatius’s own. He could see pain there.