Rist found himself wishing he had chosen three smaller books to stuff into his pack as he half-walked, half-ran through the palace grounds, moving as fast as he could without it looking like he was rushing, which was surprisingly difficult to do. He was already worn out from sparring with Brother Garramon, and now he could feel sweat once again slicking his brow. It seemed today was one of those days where he would constantly be chasing his own tail, running late for everything.
It didn't make matters any better when he found Neera already standing before the palace gatehouse, her black-trimmed brown robes draped over her shoulder, an overly smug grin adorning her face.
"Ah, Rist Havel decides to finally grace us with his presence." Neera gave an exaggerated bow, her dark hair hanging over her shoulders as she did. "Welcome, m'lord."
"Knock it off," Rist said, eyeing her askance as he wiped the sweat from his brow and patted down his robes, trying his best to look as presentable as possible. "Where's Sister Anila?"
"Oh relax," Neera said, laughing. "You're always so serious. She'll be here in a minute. She's speaking to one of the palace guards." Neera's expression shifted as she looked Rist over. She squeezed his hand, her eyes softening. "Are you all right?"
Rist nodded, allowing a soft smile to touch his lips. He hadn't meant to be so short with her. "Garramon gave me a letter from my parents a few days ago, and I realised on the way here that I still haven't read it."
"I can read it with you later, if you'd like?"
Before Rist had a chance to answer, he saw Sister Anila striding towards them, her blonde hair and silver-trimmed black cloak drifting behind her, a sword strapped to each of her hips. Sister Anila wasn't a particularly imposing figure, at least not in terms of size. She was no taller than Rist, she was missing her left arm up to the elbow, and only a thin layer of muscle wrapped around her bones. But what she lacked in heft, she more than made up for in ferocity. Rist had once watched her knock Tommin unconscious with an apple just to prove that anything can, and should, be perceived as a weapon. Not to mention the rumour that Neera had told him about how Anila had cut off her own left arm in the middle of a battle when she had been pinned by a fallen horse. He wasn't sure he quite believed that, but he didn't doubt that if anyone was capable of it, it was Sister Anila. "Apprentice Havel, you're late."
"Apologies, Sister Anila. I was training with Brother Garramon. We ran over time."
"I don't care," Sister Anila said, the slightest upturn of her bottom lip her only expression. "You're late."
"My apologies. I will do better next time."
"Yes. You will."
Rist let out a stifled gasp as Sister Anila sliced a thread of Air along the already-scarred flesh of his back. It wasn't common for Sister Anila to resort to that level of 'education'. She must have been in a particularly bad mood. Rist clenched his jaw, inadvertently cutting into the soft flesh of his lip with his tooth, the coppery taste of blood touching his tongue. He focused on what Garramon had said to him that day in the courtyard. 'Because these scars built me. Each one is a reminder of the pain I endured and the pain I overcame. That is what yours are, as well. Cherish the pain. Let it bind to who you are. You will be the better for it.'"Thank you, Sister." Rist clenched his jaw as he spoke, his teeth grinding as he drew in a slow breath through his nose. To thank someone for causing him pain seemed counter-intuitive. But responding with anger would only have led to more pain.
Sister Anila raised an eyebrow at him, but something in her expression made Rist think she was satisfied by his reply – though he truly was terrible at reading facial expressions. It wasn't something that came naturally to him. He had worked on it, of course, spent hours studying the way people's faces moved when they were happy, sad, irritated, excited, but it was always something that required conscious effort on his part.
"Come, follow me. The drills are to begin shortly." Sister Anila didn't stand on ceremony, turning even before the last word had left her mouth.
"Thank you?" Neera whispered as she and Rist followed the Exarch.
Rist shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?"
Neera looked as though she was going to question him further but thought better of it. Instead, she simply shook her head and continued walking.
Rist smoothed down his brown robes as they approached the palace gatehouse. The last time he had seen the gatehouse up close had been when he and Neera had snuck out. Neera had suggested a return journey into the city on more than one occasion, but he had put his foot down. Or rather, he had stuck his head in his book and pretended he hadn't heard her. It's not that he didn't want to sneak out again. He did. He wanted to explore the city, to spend another night with Neera at the docks, and deep down – though he would never tell Neera – he wanted to see if he could find an Alamant who might be willing to talk to him.
Ever since that night in the city when he had seen the Alamant blowing fire in the streets, his curiosity had exploded. There were so many questions. What was an Alamant, really? Did each possess a similar limitation, or were they unique? Was it a general lack of power that led to becoming an Alamant, or was there more to it? Were there truly no Battlemages who had ever become Alamants? He had still not found a single book within the library that provided any tangible information on Alamants other than that they were people who were capable of touching the Spark but failed to pass the Circle's trials.
It seemed that if he were to ever get any answers to the questions that swirled around in his brain, he would have to find them himself. The true question, though, was whether to sneak out now, or to wait until they passed their Trial of Faith, whenever that might be. If they were Acolytes, they would be free to come and go as they pleased. Less risk. Rist was well aware that he tended to obsess over these kinds of things – unanswered questions – but it wasn't something he could help.
"Rist?"
"Huh?" Rist shook his head, only vaguely aware of Neera tugging at his robes. He pulled himself from his thoughts, realising they had already passed through the palace gatehouse and were only a few feet from the staircase that descended from the palace to the city below. "Sorry, I got a bit lost in my own head."
Neera frowned. "Try to stay focused, will you? As endearing as I think your constant daydreaming is, I don't think Sister Anila feels the same. And after the amount of lashes Brother Pirnil gave you the other day, I'd like to keep your back from becoming more scarred than it already is. I honestly don't understand why you just don't have the healers tend to you. Your back looks like a whipping post at this point."
"Because they are a reminder." Even as he spoke, Rist could feel some of the scabs cracking and bleeding, the blood trickling down his back where his undershirt wasn't pressed against his skin.
"A reminder? I don't think I'll ever forget."
Rist gave Neera a weak smile as they walked. When he had first seen the twisted mess of knotted flesh and scars that adorned Garramon's back, Rist had asked the same question as Neera. Even after Garramon had explained, Rist had not quite understood. But he had decided the best way to understand was to see for himself. He had been surprised at the strange motivation he had felt upon seeing the scars in the mirror. 'Cherish the pain. Let it bind to you.' Garramon had been right. They were a reminder. A reminder that pain was simply an obstacle. And if it were an obstacle, its sole purpose was to be overcome.
As they descended the seemingly endless staircase, Rist lifted his gaze over the city. He had looked out at the city from the windows of the palace and the embassy many times, but the view from the staircase was different. It was unobstructed by walls or towers, and his range of vision wasn't limited by the size of a window. From where he stood, he could see out over all of Al'Nasla.
The city sprawled outwards from the foot of the palace steps. Rooftops and towers of grey stone spread across the landscape, split by long streets that ran the length and breadth of the city in a pattern that, now that Rist looked closely at it, was anything but random. Eighteen streets started at the foot of the steps, moving outward from the central plaza. The streets grew further apart at an equal rate as they moved towards the outer walls. The only time the streets' progress was hampered was when they reached one of the five trench-bracketed walls that encircled the city. But then, on the other side of each wall, new streets continued on the same course. Another set of streets, the number of which Rist couldn't determine, ran from the east to the west of the city, each intersecting every single one of the original eighteen streets that moved outward. It reminded him of a spider's web.
Al'Nasla couldn't match the colouring and splendour of Camylin with its red slate rooves and cylindrical towers, but in sheer size, Camylin was like a small village next to Al'Nasla. In all the time Rist had been at the embassy, he hadn't considered the number of souls that must reside within the walls of Loria's capital. Looking out over the city now, he reckoned the entire population of the villages could have fit into Al'Nasla almost a thousand times over. That guess might have been a bit north of the true figure, but he didn't think it was too far off.
By the time they reached the bottom of the steps, a cacophony of sounds filled the afternoon air, bouncing off the tightly packed buildings and flagstone streets. The calls and shouts of pedlars and hawkers, the unyielding hum of chatter, the squeaking axles of cart wheels, and, to Rist's surprise, the bleating of a particularly large goat that sat atop a stack of crates twice as tall as Rist. The crates were stacked beside a stall packed with vegetables, run by a short man with thick shoulders, a bald head, and a long moustache that dangled on either side of his mouth.
"Stay close." Sister Anila turned her head slightly as she spoke, her eyes narrowing at Rist.
"Yes, Sister." The statement hadn't required a response, but Rist's attention was too focused on the goat to care. The animal looked as though it were a king overseeing his people, a crown of horns on his head. "How did it get up there?" he whispered.
"How did what get up where?" Neera asked, looking at Rist as though he were crazy.
"The goat."
"The goat?"
"Did you not see the goat?" Rist looked back, but they had just turned a corner, and the goat was no longer in view.
"We're about to witness real Battlemages go through actual battle formations, and you're focused on a goat?"
"It was sitting on top of crates."
"Why does that make the slightest difference?"
"I was curious as to how it got to the top."
Rist jerked to a halt, almost slamming into Sister Anila, who had stopped and turned to face the two apprentices. "What in the name of The Saviour are you two chattering about? You are apprentices of the Imperial Battlemages of the Circle of Magii." Sister Anila leaned in closer. "Start acting like it."
Without waiting for a response, Sister Anila turned on her heels and continued down the long street, the implication being for Rist and Neera to follow her.
Neera let out a sigh, shaking her head, muttering as she walked. "A fucking goat…"
Rist shrugged. "I was curious."
The streets of Al'Nasla were nothing like they had been when Rist had seen them at night. They were still packed with people, still churning with discordant sounds, but the atmosphere was entirely different. The bards telling tales and singing songs, had been replaced by flower sellers, fruit merchants, fur traders, and a variety of others. The scantily clad men and women were nowhere to be seen, and, most notably for Rist, he didn't sense even the slightest sensation of the Spark, bar the general thrum in the air – which meant no Alamants.
Another difference was the smells. Rist hadn't noted any particular aromas on his last visit to the city. But now, during the day, the warm scent of fresh-baked bread drifted on the air, accented by the distinctly salty smell of cured meats and the unmistakably pungent odour of fresh fish. But above all else, it was the sweet scents of the flowers that caught his attention, reminding him of the aroma that always drifted on the air outside Verna Gritten's house – a result of her soap making. Rist had always loved walking past that house each day, particularly in the spring when traders brought Valtaran oranges into the village. Verna's orange and lily soap was quite possibly the single nicest thing Rist had ever had the pleasure of smelling. The smell filled Rist with an intense longing for home.
"Are you all right?" Neera asked as they turned another corner and passed through a wide archway set into the first city wall. "You're disappearing even more than usual."
"Me? I'm fine." Rist shook his head, giving Neera a reassuring smile. "Just thinking of home."
"This place reminds you of home? I can't image Al'Nasla is anything like your little farming village."
"I'm not from a 'little farming village'," Rist sniped before noticing the grin that was forming at the corners of Neera's mouth. "Oh, fuck off."
Neera let out a suppressed laugh, careful not to let Sister Anila hear. "You're too easy."
"You know you don't always have to try and wind me up."
"But it's so much fun. You know you'd miss it if I stopped."
Rist glared at Neera for a moment before turning his attention back to the city.
"What is it that reminds you of home?" Neera's voice was softer, gentler.
"The soap. Well, more the flowers. There isn't any soap here. At least, I don't think there is."
"Rist, come on. You're making it really difficult." Neera laughed, bumping her hip against his.
"The smell of the flowers reminds me of home. There's a soap maker there, Verna. Her orange and lily scented soap is my mam's favourite."
"That's… that's actually kind of sweet. For a farm boy."
"I'm not a farm boy. I've never worked on a farm in my life."
Neera's only reply was a wink accompanied by a smug smile. She held his gaze for a moment before turning her head and picking up her pace. "Come on, if we fall too far behind, Sister Anila will give you some new scars to remember."
Rist shook his head and followed Neera. He still found her no less irritating than he had the first day he'd met her, but it was an endearing form of irritating, if that were possible.
As they made their way through the enormous city, weaving between the throngs of people, Rist became more and more aware of the subtle shifts in people as they passed by. The halting of conversations, the whispering, the tracking eyes, the way in which people stepped aside to let them pass. At first he had simply thought himself paranoid – which was something he knew he was often guilty of and tried to push aside. But after a while, he scratched that off the list of possibilities in his mind, certain of what he was seeing. If he was being honest, Rist wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the peoples' reaction to them – was it a good thing or a bad thing? Were they scared or being respectful? After a while, he simply dropped his gaze to the street in front of him and followed wordlessly after Sister Anila. He could see a similar change in Neera. She was usually almost as bad as Dann when it came to never shutting up, but as they walked, she grew quieter and quieter.
Sister Anila seemed to notice, too.
"They are worried," the woman said, dropping back so that she walked just in front of Rist, to his left. There was a softer tone to her voice.
"Worried, Sister?"
"News travels fast, apprentice. For generations, the Lorian people have known near unwavering peace. But now there are rumblings of rebellion in the South, Urak armies are burning and raiding the villages along the foothills of Mar Dorul and the Lodhar Mountains, and refugees fill the roads across the empire. The First Army has been running drills for days now at the barracks, which has likely set rumours spinning even faster. If the sight of a Battlemage and two apprentices walking through the streets didn't elicit whispers, I would be concerned. Now, come along. We're already late."
Rist, Neera, and Sister Anila walked in silence for the next while, the whispers and sideways glances around them unceasing. It was only after they passed through the archway set into the fourth wall and into the outer rim of the city that Rist realised something: this would be the first time he had stepped outside the city walls since he had first arrived. At first, the thought struck him as strange. How could he have been there for months and never have left the city even once? This was only the second time he had even left the palace. But when he thought about it, the palace grounds themselves were around the same size as The Glade and he had only ever left The Glade a few times a year with his dad to arrange supplies for the inn.
The outer walls were cast in the same grey stone as the rest of the city and stood at least a hundred feet high, likely higher, easily thick enough for two wagons to ride along the ramparts side by side. Enormous, crenellated towers broke the monotony of the walls at clearly defined intervals, each as thick and wide as The Gilded Dragon.
"Stand back," a voice called out from up ahead, near the gatehouse that stood watch over the main passageway in and out of the city. "I said stand back!"
What had to have been at least fifty Lorian soldiers stood at the city gates, each garbed in full plate, swords strapped at their hips, red cloaks emblazoned with the black lion of Loria drifting behind them.
Standing before the soldiers and stretching back into the distance, was a line of men, women, and children. Some sat on horseback, others in carriages or the back of carts, but most were on foot. But whatever their method of travel, their faces were weary, their clothes worn and crusted with dirt and, in some cases, blood.
"Stand back and wait your turn," the same voice, likely one of the guards, called out. "You will all be processed, but you need to wait!"
"We're hungry!" A voice called back.
"We need food!"
"And water!"
"You will all be fed and watered," the guard shouted. "But if anyone tries to force their way through, there will be one less mouth to feed."
A murmur ran through the crowd at that, but the unease seemed to quieten, at least for the time being.
"Refugees have been arriving in even greater numbers over the last few days," Sister Anila said, leading Rist and Neera towards the gates.
"Why don't the guards just let them in?" Rist was aware of the ignorance of his question. There were clearly reasons as to why, but that was precisely why he had asked the question. Questions were the enemy of ignorance, and they needed to be asked.
Sister Anila frowned and gave Rist a look that let him know she thought the answer was an obvious one, which it wasn't. "Because that would lead to chaos, apprentice. Each refugee must be checked and accounted for. Otherwise, we could not cater to their needs. Without knowing their numbers and general disposition, how would we provide an adequate number of beds or enough food and water? And if we failed to do that, unrest would fester within the city. Wars are rarely won by strength of steel alone. Steel wins battles, but revolts topple kingdoms."
"I see," Rist said, giving a slight nod. That response actually answered his question perfectly, which satisfied him to no end. "Thank you, Sister."
Sister Anila inclined her head, then gestured for Rist and Neera to follow her towards the gates. As they drew closer, Rist noticed the guards were stopping people as they left the city, as well as when they entered. Though, with Sister Anila's answer in mind, he supposed that made perfect sense. To account for the number of people within the city, the guards would also need to reconcile those who left. But even from a purely logistical standpoint, Rist didn't see how their numbers would come close to being accurate with a city this large.
"Exarch." One of the guards, a tall man with a smashed-flat nose and greasy, greyish hair, gave a slight bow at the waist. He wore full plate armour, the ends of a chainmail shirt hanging just below the rim of his breastplate, his helmet held in the crook of his arm.
"Captain," Anila replied, giving nothing more than an almost imperceptible nod. "My apprentices and I are expected at the army camp."
"Of course, Exarch." The man bowed again, taking a step back and gesturing for them to pass.
"Thank you, Captain." Instead of walking past the man, like Rist had expected Sister Anila to do, she instead took a step closer to him, resting her hand on his pauldron. "How are things here? How are the people?"
For a moment, the captain looked surprised – he had clearly expected Sister Anila to pass him without another word – but he regained his composure, straightened his back, and tried his best to meet Sister Anila's gaze. "Scared, Exarch. Scared, hungry, and tired. And they've every right to be."
Seemingly unsatisfied with the brevity of the answer, Sister Anila continued to fix her gaze on the captain, not saying a word.
"I, ehm… Many have seen their villages burned, Exarch, their loved ones slaughtered by Uraks." An honest sadness crept into his voice. "Some have come as far as Arginwatch and the western villages along the base of Lodhar, refusing to stop until they reached Al'Nasla."
Sister Anila nodded. "What do we do with the hungry, the tired, and the scared, Captain?"
"I'm sorry, Exarch. I'm not sure what you mean?"
"What do we do with the hungry, the tired, and the scared?" Sister Anila repeated. "We feed them, we give them a place to rest, and we slay their demons. The Saviour watches over us, Captain. My brothers, sisters, and I will drive the beasts back to the depths from which they came. You feed these people, ensure the Craftsmages give them a place to stay, and we will slay their demons."
"It will be done, Exarch." The captain lifted his chin, determination in his voice. "May The Saviour watch over you."
"And also you."
As they made their way through the city gates, past the seemingly endless stream of refugees who eyed them with a mixture of curiosity, reverence, and caution, Rist couldn't help but stare at Sister Anila. In his time in the embassy, Rist had met quite a few mages and High Mages alike. One trait most of them shared was arrogance. It was something Rist had become accustomed to. Alongside that tended to be a complete disregard for anyone lower than them, to the point that Rist could count on one hand the number of mages with which he had held a conversation, and even the word 'conversation' was a stretch. Garramon was the exception and, to some degree, so was Sister Anila. But what Sister Anila had just said to that man showed a level of empathy he had not yet seen within The Circle.
The drawbridge creaked and groaned as Rist stepped out from under the arch of the city gates. Rist had read of Al'Nasla's dry moat. It spanned just over sixty feet – sixty-three and a half, if Rist remembered correctly. Looking out at it now, it seemed far larger. Two islands stood in the middle of the moat. The city's drawbridge connected to the first island, while a permanently fixed bridge connected the first island to the second. A third bridge, that could only be raised and lowered from the second island, was connected to the bank on the far side. It all seemed a little excessive to Rist, but he had no doubt it would be effective in the case of an attack – and what he knew about siege defence was so little it could be scrawled on a blade of grass.
Stepping close to the edge, Rist looked down into the moat, casting his gaze over the enormous trench that ringed the city. "Ninety-seven feet deep. The original trench was dug around the fledgling village of Al'Nasla in the year three hundred and thirteen After Doom, during the Uzgar War. As the city grew, the trench was filled and moved, being made wider each time."
"Is there a book in that library you haven't read?"
"Plenty. Thousands, in fact."
"It was a rhetorical question, Rist." Neera gave Rist a flat stare, the same one she always gave him when he didn't understand something that seemed perfectly obvious to her.
Rist shrugged. The mention of books caused his mind to temporarily shift to Druids, A Magic Lost. He would have finished it weeks ago if he'd been given some time alone, but that was a precious commodity nowadays. Hopefully I can get to it tonight. For now, I need to focus.
Each of the two islands that stood within the moat were slightly wider than they were long and large enough to hold twenty to thirty people at any one time. Five soldiers in red and black leathers were stationed on each island, while a further twenty held positions on the far bank, controlling the flow of refugees and visitors. Each group of soldiers nodded to Sister Anila as she, Rist, and Neera passed. Most even did the same to Rist and Neera, which surprised him. He supposed to those in the North who couldn't touch the Spark, any mage was to be respected, even apprentices. It was an interesting contrast between the North and the South. Respect versus fear. Protection versus oppression.
"That's the camp," Sister Anila said, once they had reached the far bank. She pointed to an enormous encampment that stood about a mile from the city. Rows of long, grey slate rooves peered over thirty-foot high walls. The grounds outside the camp's walls were abuzz with activity. The thunderous stamping of feet, clinking of steel and roaring of commands filled the air as groups of soldiers in full armour marched about in formation, running drills, captains and commanders shouting at the top of their lungs. Even from that distance, Rist couldn't help but be impressed by the discipline of the soldiers, who moved with an almost unnatural unity, matching each other's steps and movements to the second.
"Al'Nasla's army camp is the largest in all the continent," Sister Anila continued. "It was built to hold two armies at any one time but acts as the permanent residence of the First Army, while the city's garrison is barracked within its walls." Sister Anila turned her head, ensuring she had Rist and Neera's attention. "As of yet, we have not gone through the structure and breakdown of Lorian armies. Though, I'm sure you've read a few books on the subject, Rist."
Rist nodded, taking a few seconds to register that Sister Anila's continued stare meant she wanted him to give a deeper answer. "Each Lorian army comprises around five thousand four hundred soldiers, including four hundred cavalry, with a slight variance depending on auxiliary forces." It was only as the words left Rist's mouth he realised that meant this army camp was capable of holding over ten thousand souls at any given time. Ten thousand. That's more than all the villages five times over. "The cavalry is divided into four groups of one hundred, known as flights, while the infantry and archers are divided into ten blocks of four hundred, each led by a general, which is further divided into five cadres of eighty, each led by a cadre captain. The last block of one thousand infantry is led by the army commander."
As Rist finished his sentence, he drew in a deep lungful air, realising he hadn't taken a single breath while speaking. He also noticed that Neera was just staring at him, shaking her head.
"Very good." Sister Anila gave a slight upturn of her bottom lip. "And embedded within each army are twenty-eight Healers, a Consul, a Craftsmage, and one hundred Battlemages. One hundred and thirty mages in total. Today, you will meet Magnus Offa, Battlemage Commander of the First Army. It is under his tutelage that you will begin training in group combat formations. When Apprentice Battlemages are trained at the High Tower in Berona, they engage in formational training amongst groups of their peers. But we are not in the High Tower. There are only four sponsored apprentices in all the embassy, as you well know, and only you two are pledged to the Battlemage affinity. As such, you will be training directly with the Battlemages of the First Army. Exarch Magnus Offa is one of the most decorated military commanders in Lorian history. Do not squander this opportunity. Sponsored apprentices are not taken into The Circle often, and as such, very few are ever offered the level of training you receive. But let me be clear: you are expected to excel. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Sister Anila." Both Rist and Neera said in unison.
"Good. Follow me."
Sister Anila led Rist and Neera through the practice grounds, stopping every now and again to point out different infantry formations, explaining close-order and extended-order drills, and commenting on the effective uses for different weapon classes. She even recommended a book for Rist to research: The Art of War by Sumara Tuzan. Rist was so appreciative of her interest in his reading he neglected to mention that he had already read the book – twice.
"Battlemages are not just warriors," Sister Anila said as they rounded a group of spearmen running a close-order drill. "We are leaders of men. When the fighting starts, when steel clashes and blood soaks the ground, the soldiers will look to us for guidance. Our presence alone will save lives. And as such, we must understand war. We must understand the mechanics of combat, the tactics of battle, and the workings of the human spirit – and what breaks it."
Rist stopped dead, a low thrum resonating through his body, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. When someone drew on the Spark, Rist could feel it pricking at the back of his mind, but this was different. The sensation he was used to feeling was but a trickling stream compared to the ocean of power that now pulsated in the air, rippling in waves.
"You feel it." A smile rested on Sister Anila's face as she looked between Neera and Rist.
"What is it?" Neera asked, short of breath, a touch of panic in her eyes.
"It's the Spark, apprentice. In cities such as Al'Nasla, and in particular, Berona, the sensation always lingers in the air, like the burbling of a river in the back of your mind. But when enough mages in close proximity draw from the Spark at the same time, its aura seeps into the world. But it means we are close." Sister Anila continued walking, gesturing for Rist and Neera to follow.
With the Spark thrumming through the air, everything felt different, clearer. The sounds around him separated, each clanging steel boot unique, each roar and shout distinct. The air tasted crisp, like the aftermath of summer rain, and the once-gentle breeze felt almost harsh against his skin.
After a few minutes of walking past cavalry formations and groups of infantry practising the set-up and take-down of tents, the Battlemages of the First Army came into view. Even were it not for the gleaming half-plate armour and billowing black cloaks, Rist would have immediately known who they were.
They stood in two groups, side by side, opposite an arrangement of eight-foot-tall stone pillars that jutted from the ground, clearly created using the Spark.
"Dragon's Maw!" a voice bellowed.
A pulse of power rippled through the air, flowing outwards from the Battlemages. Threads of Fire and Air whipped around the formation, crackling with energy, weaving and twisting about each other. Within moments, all the threads had knotted together at the front of the formation, and a roaring pillar of fire erupted forward. The crashing waves of flame spread across the full width of the formation and rose almost eight feet off the ground.
Rist could feel the pull of the Spark in the air, calling to him, urging him to open himself. It was intoxicating. Almost subconsciously, he reached out, opening his mind, but stopped as soon as he felt a hand resting on his shoulder.
"The first time you truly feel it can be almost euphoric," Sister Anila said, a knowing look in her eyes.
Rist nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Beside him, Neera was still staring at the terrifying display of power, her eyes glistening in the light of the fire. Even some soldiers behind them had stopped, talking amongst themselves as they watched the Battlemages.
"This is a test of endurance," Sister Anila said, looking towards the Battlemages. "In a Group Movement such as Dragon's Maw, the strength of the whole relies on the weakest link in the chain. When one mage releases the Spark, the entire Movement collapses. All Battlemage companies test the endurance of their Movements periodically, so as to know their limitations."
The raging torrent of fire continued, unrelenting, for several minutes, burning just as hot and bright as it had from the start, consuming the stone pillars. Rist couldn't fathom the amount of power and discipline, it would take to maintain threads of that strength for so long. He didn't think he had ever drawn from the Spark for longer than ten or fifteen seconds at any one time. Not simply because of the strain it would put on his body, but because for every moment he held onto the Spark, he yearned to hold it for two more, which was a dangerous path to tread.
A second pulse rippled through the air, and the pillar of fire flickered from existence, the thrum of the Spark dissipating. The ground over which the flames had flowed was scorched black, every blade of grass burned to a crisp, the clay dry and brittle. The pillars of stone were painted with char but otherwise looked as sturdy as they had before.
Ahead, some Battlemages dropped to their knees, others holding their companions steady. In a sense, it was good to see their fatigue, to know they were mortal.
"Anila Uraksplitter!" A tall man with an enormous black beard stepped from the ranks of Battlemages and started towards Rist, Neera, and Sister Anila. There wasn't so much as a touch of weariness in his gait, and not a drop of sweat slicked his brow. Rist noticed the silver trim that ran along the man's black cloak.
"Magnus Offa," Sister Anila replied, reaching out her hand.
The man batted away Sister Anila's hand without breaking stride and instead wrapped his arms around her and picked her up with the ease of a father sweeping a child into his arms.
"Magnus," Sister Anila snapped, a suppressed laugh breaking through her façade of irritation. "Put me down."
"Always so serious, Uraksplitter!" The man lowered Sister Anila to her feet, a smile beaming from ear to ear. "When did you return to the capital? Last I heard, you were in Bromis, slaying beasts single-handedly." Magnus raised his eyebrows, a playful grin twisting his lips. "Single-handedly?" He repeated, turning to Rist and Neera. "Gods, Anila, do you purposely train the sense of humour out of them?"
Sister Anila glared at Magnus for a moment before letting out a sigh. "I returned a few months ago. I'm sorry I haven't come to visit. Things have been a bit… well, you know. And I've had these two to train in swordsmanship."
"It's all right," the big man said, reaching his fingers through his thick beard to scratch his chin. One thing about the Spark's effect on aging that irritated Rist to no end was that unless a mage was particularly ancient, it was near impossible to tell how many summers they had seen. Exarch Magnus Offa might have seen forty summers or four hundred. "You could have no greater teacher, young ones," the Exarch said, resting his hand on Anila's shoulder. "I bet you wonder why she carries two swords despite only having one hand, don't you?"
"Magnus." There was no laughter breaking through Sister Anila's irritation this time.
Magnus smiled. "One time, about halfway through the first Valtaran Rebellion – so, what, ninety years ago? It doesn't matter. We were stationed with the Seventh Army at Ironcreek. It was the night after a great battle. We had taken heavy losses, but the Valtarans had lost more. Either way, Anila and I, along with a few others, were piss drunk on Valtaran wine. We'd strolled down to the creek for a bit of a wash when we were set upon by a wyvern rider. Now I don't suppose you've ever seen a wyvern, but they're vicious bastards. Imagine a dragon but the size of a war horse. They can't breathe fire, but their limbs are dense and their teeth and talons can rend steel like parchment. Anyway, the beast swoops down and rips old Harmak in half, blood and guts everywhere. Anila, being the fucking lunatic she is, leaps from a rock onto to the wyvern's back, but—" Magnus leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper "—she's so piss drunk when she draws her sword, she drops it straight into the creek." The big man burst out laughing, throwing his head back and clutching his hand to his belly. Despite the clear look of annoyance on Sister Anila's face, Rist couldn't help but like the man.
"Now, mind you," Magnus continued, "she did manage to knock the rider unconscious, undo the saddle clips, and toss her from the wyvern's back. Do you know how difficult it is to kill a wyvern without a sword when you're too drunk to grasp the Spark and you've only got one arm? It's pretty fucking difficult, let me tell you. But old Uraksplitter over here held onto the beast with her legs and proceeded to beat it senseless with her shoe. Her shoe! I've never seen anything like it in all my years. Anyway, in its confusion, the creature tossed Anila to the ground and crashed into one of the rocks, then we cut it to pieces. The next day, Anila comes out of her tent with two swords strapped to her hips. I asked her why. She says 'because I'm never beating a wyvern with a shoe again as long as I live.'"
Tears of laughter rolled down Magnus's cheeks, and even Sister Anila couldn't hold back a tentative smile.
"All right," Sister Anila said, shaking her head. "That's enough of that. Magnus, the apprentices have come today to observe formational exercises and are to begin training once you have deemed their knowledge competent."
Magnus stood up straight, letting out a puff of air as he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. "The years have tamed you, Anila. There was a time when you would have been on the floor rolling at that story."
"I will leave you to it," Sister Anila said, ignoring Magnus's comment. "When you are finished, Magnus, could you please send the apprentices back to the embassy along with an escort?"
"Of course," Magnus replied, regaining some composure. "It's good to see you, Anila. Don't leave it so long next time."
Sister Anila gave a placating nod, then turned and made her way back in the direction they had come.
"Come on," Magnus said with a sigh. "If you're lucky, I'll tell you how she lost that arm."