The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  Zeivite ran to a new position at the edge of the square and a new stream of energy bolts started thinning the flow of skeletal miners. Then silence came. Broken bones littered the ground like twigs on a forest floor and the broken bodies of eight guards lay among them.

  ‘Don’t you have some other, more powerful magic that could have destroyed these things quicker?’ Cory asked breathlessly, sheathing his sword and casting a grimacing glance about him.

  Zeivite counted to five in his mind, weighing his words before he spoke. ‘Of course, if you don’t mind this part of the city burning to the ground and killing all the people in the buildings in the process,’ he said, gesturing around them as he spoke. Cory followed his gesture around the old market square and noted timid faces reappearing at some of the open windows. The remaining guards took account of who among their number remained. Some joined the warrior priest as he bowed his head in prayer over the dead.

  ‘You might be glad to know there are no others in or near Tranmure,’ said Zeivite.

  ‘All this is over?’ Cory asked.

  Zeivite slowly shook his head, ‘I seriously doubt it.’

  Black-robed priests hurried into the square and the warrior priest watched over them as they lifted the dead guards onto a waiting hand cart. The bodies were arranged with care, arms tucked by their sides. In moments, they were gone and all was peaceful in the old market square.

  ***

  William’s eyes snapped wide open with shock at the cold bony hand that had an iron grip on his throat. He felt like a workpiece in his blacksmith's workshop caught in the hold of the crucible tongs. His mouth stretched open with a scream that failed to reach his ears as he gazed into eyes that glowed like burning coals. Fixed with a fleshless grimace, the skull appeared to float above him, partially exposed in the darkness like a half moon in a clear night sky. It wore a crown of gold picked out of the dark by faint moonlight that made it in through the window. The skeletal head drifted closer and tilted, as if curious at what it had found. William felt the room turn and the bed beneath his back fall away. Memories started to stir and boil within his mind…

  He was standing in the doorway of the smithy — his father’s smithy — back when he watched the fathers of his friends return from the Battle of Beldon Valley. ‘Why didn’t you go to battle, Dad?’ he asked.

  ‘I had to stay here and make weapons and armour, lad…’

  He was in his father’s smithy now as an apprentice savouring that clashing ringing sound for the first time. Beautiful clouds of bright orange sparks puffed up and swirled away from the white-hot iron with each beat of his hammer…

  He was at the Summer Light Festival, sitting at one of the long tables bathed in candlelight with meat and fruits on his plate. He was barely aware of the food in front of him. He looked up into blue eyes under a fall of brown hair and saw Mary’s face lit by the soft light. He marvelled at her smile for the first time. They danced, he walked her home through the streets aglow with the festival lights and at the door to her house they kissed…

  It was springtime in the church and Mary walked up the aisle wearing a beautiful white flowing dress and the same smile as always. Their mothers wept into embroidered handkerchiefs…

  He was lifting Millie for the first time — a tiny bundle wrapped in a white towel…

  Then he kissed an exuberant Millie goodnight, despite her not being tired, leaving behind a sooty print on her forehead that Mary wiped off with the heel of her hand and her own spit. Mary rubbed harder and harder but the soot would not be cleaned. Blood started to run in a thin rivulet down Millie’s face. Mary rubbed so hard he could see the white bone of Millie’s skull peeping through. ‘I’m tired now, I think I’ll go to sleep, Daddy.’

  That’s not right, thought William…

  Memories churned and a voice he did not recognise with unfamiliar scenes appeared in William’s mind. ‘Big breakfast? Nonsense, I haven’t seen that boy eat all day. I’ll not see someone starve if I can help it — not again.’

  Nearhon soldiers burning crops, desperate eyes… The people went hungry and some of them died. Who is Jack Samshaw? No not Jack, Delilah. Mrs Samshaw? William wrenched his mind away.

  Then it was sucked straight into…

  ‘I need five thousand maces by tomorrow.’ Good luck with that; twenty-three of them so far. Sammy was gingerly pouring the white-hot molten soul into a new mould… it will make a great weapon.

  William’s loins suddenly burned with lust and a new voice in a new place appeared.

  He was on the flour sacks in the mill store by the river. It was a hot, sweaty day and he seemed to be pressed up against a hot, sweaty pretty girl with brown hair and brown eyes, writhing naked and moaning beneath him.

  ‘Wait — that’s not Mary. Who’s Magdeline? Mary, help me!’

  With Mary alone in a distant meadow in the woods, William’s heart and soul were on fire, intoxicated with her beauty and scent. The birds were chirping and Mary was giggling at their daring to make love outdoors.

  Another voice came into his mind: ‘No time for this nonsense. I have to appoint a new general tonight, but I’m worried about Pragius; he doesn’t seem to be himself. When I’ve sorted that out, I must talk to Sebastian and Cory about the struggle I have as king trying to rule after my over controlling mother.’

  William recognised one of his own memories. The pork and apple pie was delicious but he struggled to keep the juices of the tomatoes from escaping his mouth; no matter how many times he tried, the juices still went down his shirt. No, that’s not right either, thought William.

  A voice, so much closer this time, with a sound that reminded him of rocks grinding together in the dust. ‘No matter how many souls I take, none is as thrilling and sweet to consume as Mrs Samshaw’s.’

  The voice in his mind changed and William recognised Magdeline. ‘I’ll marry Joseph, the miller’s son. Pragius will never take a girl like me to be his queen and I’m afraid to raise his son alone.’

  William remembered hauling himself up the hill after work like the walking dead and dropping into bed. Then he saw something new.

  Drumming skeletal fingers on a chimney pot, the sound like stones dropped into a pottery flower pot.

  William looked down on his own shrivelled face, the lips stretched back against the teeth like tightened leather belts. It must be his face because Mary lay asleep next to him despite the silent scream frozen on his face. Was Mary on fire? A fascinating, beautiful white flame seemed to curl gently within her body. It was… delicious. He hungered for it, craved it, thought to reach for it but had no arms to obey — and then the thought was swept away by a tide of countless other memories rushing in. William fell into confusion, tried to separate the memories that were not his, but the baby teeth of his mind could not chew the tough pieces in the pork and apple pie. He pleaded, ‘Can’t I just have apple pie, Mummy?’ Bless her…

  Blackness…

  William drowned in memories that were not his own.

  Mary’s primaeval scream broke the dawn.

  Chapter 11

  Lord Silver

  The Battle of the South Nearhon Forest 1850.

  Kingdom Army of Valendo led by King-Consort General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra.

  Deaths: approximately 1700.

  Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by General Magnar.

  Deaths: approximately 2900.

  — Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo

  ‘I’ve been having difficulty tracking you down, Your Majesty,’ said Xolt, claiming a front-row seat next to Sebastian. Early morning light shot intense rays through the windows, but the bronze sun at the front of the church remained dull. There were no oil lamps lit to give it life. Xolt’s manner was as meticulously groomed as his hair and his tone was conversational; he could have been enquiring about the price of pots in the market or asking how his grandsons were getting on with their studies.

  Sebastian surfac
ed from his inner place in prayer, a place where he could dwell on simple things. There he could pray for sunshine, a good crop, favourable winds at sea, good fortune for the poor, give thanks for the new day, the still-standing stones of the church and give thanks for the good health of his family. Ah, too late for that last prayer. Thanks be to God, he thought sarcastically.

  Archpriest Ranold would tell him God had a long-term plan, a plan that sent the odour of decaying flesh up Sebastian’s nose. Prayer was a familiar place; he knew where he was and who he was. I must not lose faith, he reminded himself silently.

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy.’ His words to Xolt were half croaked, the first he’d spoken in the day. He started to wonder how Jane was this morning. What chance was there that the bright sunlight would prove to her the windows were spotless and streak-free? What chance was there that she would leave the bucket and cloths alone in the cupboard and do something else with her day? The churchyard would benefit from some gardening effort. Stronger late season flowers were pushing their way past early flowers that now wilted and died. The reds replaced the blues. Jane, his next stepping stone across the torrent of a new day. Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘I hope you haven’t come looking for answers to your questions. Whatever answers I had and my ability to find them went up in flames just recently.’

  ‘I believe most of my questions have become moot points, all things considered. What of appointing a new general?’

  ‘My… remaining brother is unofficially appointed to the role and has summoned army units from the southern cities. We have an apparently self-appointed archmage doing a good job of keeping the… er… walking dead at bay. And scaring the people while he does so.’

  ‘It would be proper protocol for me to express my condolences and sorrow for your losses, but I’m a warrior who knows war comes with loss every day. I can’t come to you expressing sorrow every day.’

  ‘It might make me feel better if you did.’

  ‘Your Majesty, may I express my great sorrow for your loss. There. Did it work?’

  Sebastian huffed. ‘It’s not entirely clear what we are at war with. There has been no declaration and no actual army to fight.’

  ‘King Klonag wasn’t kind enough to declare war on Emiria before he came marching through our borders, either. No respect for protocol, that man.’

  Sebastian’s eyes flicked up to Xolt’s face, looking for any signs of humour accompanying that statement. He found a faultlessly stern countenance looking back. ‘I’m really not prepared for the position I find myself in,’ he admitted.

  ‘I’m sure the crown can be a heavy burden.’

  Sebastian coughed a dry, humourless laugh. ‘Ah, the irony. The crown I should be wearing rests on the head of the horror that was once my brother Pragius.’

  ‘That rumour is true, then? Prince Pragius has become the… “dead mage”, as people are calling him. How in the world —?’

  ‘Did this happen?’ Sebastian finished. ‘We don’t know, but with hindsight, Pragius hasn’t really been himself for some time. Look, under the circumstances, I would understand if you felt it necessary to return home.’

  ‘Some of our citizens have done so already, and many more plan to. I shall remain. Don’t forget we have a mutual defence pact. It wouldn’t be much of a pact if Emiria withdrew all its people now.’

  ‘I don’t think we have a copy of the pact document any longer.’

  ‘I’ll start making arrangements for a replacement document to be drawn up. In the meantime, what does Valendo need?’

  ‘You would have to ask the general. He’s the one at the heels of the archmage that most of the citizens try to avoid. You can’t miss him.’

  ***

  People flowed south out of Tranmure, a thin ribbon of humanity on the road that clung to the eastern bank of the river Hali. Some rode on horseback, others on horse and cart piled high with any possessions that could be carried away. Most trudged with packs on their backs or bags in their hands. The blessing for them all was continuing fine weather and the prospect of a good road ahead. Cory shifted in his saddle as Sunny cropped the green grass by the road. Zeivite was mounted on the brown stallion he had acquired from the castle and seemed to watch over the whole valley with more than just his eyes.

  ‘Reminds me of the times we had to quit Norvale before the advancing Nearhon army,’ the mage murmured.

  ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ asked a little girl sitting on the seat of a cart next to a woman with red-rimmed blue eyes and tangled brown hair clinging to her cheeks.

  ‘Going to Granny and Grandpa’s in Ostenza.’

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’

  The woman’s lower lip quivered as she stifled a sob. ‘He’s gone on a journey, darling.’

  ‘Will he be at Granny’s when we get there?’

  ‘No, he won’t be there.’

  ‘But where’s Daddy going then?’

  ‘Millie, please… No more questions right now, Mummy is thinking.’

  Cory gritted his teeth and gripped the hilt of his sword as if that alone could quell the helpless rage he felt building inside. He guided Sunny further away from the road until he could no longer hear the voices.

  After a few minutes, Zeivite pulled up beside him. ‘They are about an hour away.’

  ‘Who?’ Cory turned, alarmed.

  ‘The army you summoned. I think Quain might be with them, but it’s hard to be sure at this distance.’

  ‘And no sign of an enemy army to fight. I find the situation very confusing, nothing like I’ve trained for. A bad position for a commander or general to be in.’

  ‘Best keep that sort of talk away from the common soldier’s ear, I think.’

  Cory grunted.

  The reality of an army looked nothing like wooden pieces on the castle briefing room table that could be picked up and moved around on an idle whim, or an imagined grand plan. Flickers of royal blue pennants and cloaks decorated a river of chainmail hoods bobbing up and down in unison. The soldiers were flanked by cavalry horsemen and led by one rider. They appeared like a second river following the bank of the first. Perplexed bargemen made their lazy way downstream on their barges in the opposite direction, watching the parade pass. Cory stood in his stirrups and strained to listen to the distant sound of voices. ‘Is that singing I can hear?’ he asked.

  ‘Quain is definitely with them,’ Zeivite replied flatly.

  ‘In range for your battle sense?’

  ‘I don’t need magic to know Quain is definitely with them.’

  Cory frowned at the look of consternation on Zeivite’s face and sat back down in the saddle. The lead horseman was becoming easier to make out. Late morning sunlight flashed off his bright armour while a sword held aloft swept the air like an oversized orchestra conductor’s baton. Cory squinted and tried to focus on the white horse the lead figure rode. ‘I don’t suppose you still have that telescope my grandfather told me about, do you?’ Cory asked.

  ‘There’s nothing you should be in a hurry to see,’ Zeivite grumbled.

  Cory looked at the archmage expectantly. Zeivite glanced skyward, drew the telescope out from his robes and held it out. The young general played around with it for a short time before he figured out how to focus it on the horseman. ‘Is it just me, or is that horse actually prancing in time to the song they’re singing?’

  ‘Don’t. Just don’t ask,’ Zeivite replied with a sigh.

  Cory shook his head slowly and allowed a smile to play across his lips. A few of the words from the songs raucous chorus carried on the air. ‘Silver and Jade, burnin’, breakin’… Like Silver and Jade.’ Zeivite’s expression darkened further as the army approached and soon the whole song could be heard. Some of the lyrics stumbled over the melody rather than worked in harmony with it. Despite cringing at the repetitions of ‘Burning up the bad guys!’ and ‘Follow Silver and Jade’, Cory couldn’t stop the chorus infecting his mind. When the song wa
s over, the tale of Silver and Jade leaving behind a wasted mercenary life and answering the call to battle from a royal general many times over the years had been told.

  The comical conductor reined in his frisky mount and flashed them a smile through his helmet’s open visor. The horse tossed its head one last time, the long white mane cascading down the side of its muscular neck. ‘It doesn’t quite flow in places, but not a bad effort for something conjured up on the road. Maybe I should hire a bard to tidy up the lyrics a bit,’ the armoured man said, still smiling.

  ‘Or maybe not,’ growled Zeivite. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just taught a whole new army of, what, five thousand —’

  ‘Five thousand two hundred and twenty-five, of which four thousand six hundred are foot soldiers, two hundred and twenty-five are cavalry and the rest are made up of engineers, baggage handlers, cooks and a few ladies of questionable repute doing a grand job of keeping up morale. I hear the redhead called Meryl is popular, just in case you’re interested in that sort of thing,’ he said, addressing Cory. ‘Not that I am, of course. Hazel’s the only woman for me these days. As you can hear, the men all have fine singing voices.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve taught a new army that silly sobriquet — Jade…’ Zeivite drew breath.

  The armoured man continued. ‘It’s always worked well with Silver. I needed a name with one syllable for the song, and it does match with the colour of your dress.’