The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  ‘It is a girl’s name. And it’s not a dress, it is a magician’s robe, as you well know.’

  The armoured man placed his hand by his mouth as if to mask what he was saying from the mage and spoke conspiratorially to Cory. ‘Has he been drinking enough of his nasty tea lately? He gets all touchy if he hasn’t had enough of it. I hope you haven’t been wearing him out with too much action and left some of the enemy for us to fight? You’d think Jade would be pleased I’ve delivered an army eager to buy him a drink down the nearest tavern, rather than cower in fear behind the bar when he entered. He’s all seriousness and foreboding, quite scary for the young soldier. Oh, where are my manners?! Quain Marln.’ Quain held his arm out for the warrior’s handshake and Cory took it. ‘Unless you’ve appointed someone else to the positions, I’ll be your lieutenant general, morale officer, drinking partner and morning sober-upper in the coming war. But I don’t polish boots or armour as I’ve got a squire who does that sort of thing for me. I can’t find him at the moment but he’s probably somewhere near that Meryl. Seems to have taken a shine to her — the poor naïve fellow hasn’t worked out she expects to be paid in more than just eloquent compliments. Bit of a sheltered life on Green Island, you see.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a horse dance before. I’m Prince Cory, the… general.’

  ‘It took me weeks to teach him to dance. Hazel thought I was nuts trying.’ Quain paused a moment, expecting a chuckle, then imagined the feeble pun flying way over Cory’s head and landing somewhere deep in the streets of Tranmure. ‘Yes, well, she thought it was hysterical once I did it. And it had Hyacinth, Ewan, Charlie, Rosemary and Garon in stitches. Well, it looked like Garon laughed but he might be a bit young to understand what was going on. Perhaps it was just wind.’

  ‘Ho! Lord Silver,’ the cavalry commander called out as he galloped up.

  ‘Lord Silver?’ Zeivite asked, eyebrows raised.

  Quain shrugged under his armour with a look that managed to mix embarrassment with looking pleased with himself. ‘We have been living in old Lord Grenfeld’s castle a long time now — surely the Silver Warrior is due a promotion someday? It wasn’t my idea. Honestly!’

  The cavalry commander spoke. ‘The engineers want to know where we’re going to camp for the night.’

  Quain looked at Cory. The cavalry commander followed his gaze and looked at Cory expectantly. Zeivite surveyed the army as it finished bunching up to halt. Cory looked over Tranmure and the surrounding land for an answer. ‘In the fields on the east side of the city. Set up behind the church by the lake. Fortifications and triple — no, quadruple — guards on the roads to the east where the mines are. They’ve been coming in from the mines. There is a mage out there. Raise the alarm as soon as anything attacks. No one tries to fight alone. And watch out for your fellow soldier dying by your side because he will stand up again and fight you.’

  The cavalryman, who had been nodding, took on a look of disbelief at the last part.

  ‘The mage our general speaks of is a necromancer, the walking dead himself. He seems able to raise the dead in unlimited numbers,’ Zeivite stated gravely.

  ‘Yes, well don’t drown it in honey and sugar-coat it, will you? Tell it as it is,’ said Quain, nodding a dismissal to the cavalry commander.

  ‘We’ll have a command tent up by sundown. You and I have some catching up to do, General. And don’t worry about bringing Mr Serious. He needs his beauty sleep.’

  ‘Do you even like each other?’ Cory asked.

  Quain beamed back. ‘Of course, why would you think otherwise? We have a special understanding. He’s special and I’m understanding.’ With that, he pranced his horse into a gallop with a ‘Ho!’ and headed after the cavalry commander.

  Zeivite’s expression turned impassive.

  ‘Well, he’s certainly different,’ said Cory.

  ‘Mmm, I know. Not so much a breath of fresh air as a hurricane hooked up to brilliant sunshine,’ Zeivite replied.

  ‘Interesting way to put it.’

  ‘Not my words, your grandfather’s. Don’t give him too much credit for his wit. The special relationship remark came from the court jester in Tri maybe eighteen or twenty years ago, and I’m sure I’ve heard the tune to that silly song somewhere before. When it comes to maintaining the morale of the troops he has “the morals of the fabled vampire and the tenacity of a Ruberan desert pack dog”. And yes, those are your grandfather’s words too. It does tend to be my blood he sucks, as you will have noticed. His tactics and combat style are all original Quain, though.’

  ‘Would you be upset if I told you I quite liked your “sobriquet”, whatever that means?’ Cory said, and half smiled.

  Zeivite sighed. ‘It’s a term more common in the islands. Also common in the islands are colourful characters, especially ship captains and pirates, who like to have amusing nicknames — sobriquets — given them by the men they command.’

  ‘Maybe I should have one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too eager. As you can see, there is no guarantee you’ll like the one chosen for you and you may have no choice in the matter, anyway.’

  ***

  As the twilight came, Tranmure buzzed with the sounds of markets bursting with people, the stalls filled with goods brought in by farmers, craftsmen and other traders travelling in the wake of the army. Blue and white tents popped up like a bumper crop of mushrooms in the fields behind, and around the church and lake. Campfires glittered in the gloom, food cooked and eaten, stories told, ale shared and the ‘Silver and Jade’ song sung all over again. Cory threaded his way through the encampment free from the burden of armour but kept his sword strapped to his back. ‘I didn’t think you would be coming after this morning,’ said Cory.

  Zeivite drifted along beside him. ‘Just the game we play, Cory. Of course I’m coming. Oow!’ A passing trio of soldiers in the midst of the song’s chorus slapped ‘Jade’ on the back of his shoulder as they passed. Zeivite’s glare followed them.

  The command tent glowed with the light of oil lamps inside. Guards surrounded the tent and the canopied entrance was flanked by two more. They nodded as Cory and Zeivite entered the tent. A camp cook busied himself ladling out a lumpy stew into bowls set around the table. He whistled as he worked, occasionally adjusting a floppy white hat that he wore. Quain sat at the table and in the relative quiet of the first few moments Cory took stock of the man out of his armour. He was storybook handsome, the sort who wouldn’t be out of place scaling a tall tower to rescue a damsel in distress. Blue eyes, mousey-coloured hair, parted in the middle with the kind of salt and pepper grey only a middle-aged man would possess. Forty-something going on sixteen. Cory suppressed a smile at the thought. There was another man sat next to Quain with the hood up on his black priest's robe. Church law dictated that the warrior priest should remain anonymous. Around the table sat the cavalry commander Cory had not seen before this day, and three other boys become men he knew well.

  ‘Junaid,’ the cavalry commander introduced himself. He kept with the fashion for Vale men with his long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Junaid cast an uncertain look at Cory while sharing the warrior’s handshake with him.

  ‘Theo, Archie, Greg. Who would have thought most of us all in one place again?’ Cory shared the same handshake with each of them. Theo’s aggressive green eyes bore into Cory’s as they shook, and Cory noted the no-less-aggressively short hair. Archie was a friendlier-looking figure, topped by a haystack of dirty blond hair — some of which appeared to have toppled off the stack and stuck to his chin. Greg was another Vale man from Haliford with his slick black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Cory grinned at a thin moustache that almost seemed to have been drawn on that had appeared since he last saw him. It added to the oily, slightly arrogant air and grace the young man carried.

  ‘Almost like old times all round,’ Quain announced. ‘Did anyone invite the scout commander?’ He picked up a spoon and dug it into the b
owl of stew in front of him. A clank sounded from the corner of the room as the cook put the pot and ladle down.

  ‘Haven’t seen him since yesterday,’ Cory replied, taking the seat next to Quain. Zeivite took the next.

  ‘If the scout commander needed an invite, he wouldn’t be good enough as the scout commander,’ said the cook, removing the floppy white hat that seemed reluctant to grip onto his hair. He pulled a chair up to the table. Steady brown eyes regarded the other men around the table. ‘And I will point out that camp security is lax, because a stranger in a thin disguise just managed to serve supper in the command tent.’

  ‘Yes, quite,’ Quain mumbled through a mouthful. ‘Although I know the difference between a camp cook and Valendo’s scout commander.’ He grinned. ‘So what’s the story with the “undead” mage?’

  Cory’s face darkened as he thought about where to start, then related the tale from the night of the storm to the current day. Zeivite interjected at various points to add more details.

  ‘And we suspect this is down to King Klonag because…?’ Quain asked.

  ‘Princess Ferand was on an extended diplomatic visit and then suddenly called home,’ the scout commander answered. ‘I had members of my network investigate why when she arrived there. That is when we discovered Prince Karl Ferand obtained information about this attack from his own sources in Bytper. Word got back here too late.’

  ‘How did this happen to Prince Pragius?’ Quain asked.

  ‘It must be something to do with the book he carries. He carries only this, the crown of Valendo and the king’s cloak,’ said Zeivite.

  ‘How did he get the book?’ asked Quain.

  The scout commander jabbed his spoon into the bottom of his wooden food bowl, staring at the brown lumps of meat.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Quain. ‘How big an army do we think he has now?’

  ‘Very few to none,’ replied Zeivite.

  Junaid froze, his spoon midway to his mouth. He looked at Cory and the mage, a spark of yellow light from the table lamp caught in each of his dark eyes. Archie, Theo and Greg looked at each other like confused students in a study room. Junaid finally asked, ‘Is it really going to take an army of over five thousand to fight one battle mage?’ The spoon continued to his mouth.

  Quain scraped the last of the stew from his bowl. Zeivite looked around, or maybe it was through the room as if there was some other puzzle to be solved beyond the walls of the tent.

  Cory locked eyes with Junaid. ‘In one night the palace was destroyed. Most of my family was killed, along with almost all of the kingdom’s military leadership. The next night, unknown numbers of the undead came rushing out of the dark, slaughtering the town guard before them. The town guard then stood up and joined them in the fight. Have you any idea what it’s like to cut down a man you fought next to only moments before — or worse, someone you called a friend? It all gets out of hand very fast. I called up an army from everywhere except Norvale to keep the northern border secure. What else was I going to do? We don’t know what we’re dealing with.’

  Junaid’s expression gave the appearance of a man who might have an answer but was unwilling to share it.

  ‘We seem to have covered as much useful ground as we can for one night. Perhaps we can consider starting patrols in the morning and see what evidence of enemy activity we can uncover?’ Quain suggested.

  Cory nodded.

  ‘I need to check the horses are being attended to. I assume you want mounted patrols.’ Without waiting for a response, Junaid stood and strode out into the night, the tent door flapping behind him as he went.

  Quain watched the cavalry commander’s back intently until he could no longer see him through the gap between the door flaps. ‘The general and I have a little more to discuss before we turn in for the night.’ Quain looked at the other men around the table and they hurriedly scooped up the last of their stew and filed out of the tent.

  Zeivite stood, walked slowly to the doorway, then turned and faced Cory and Quain. His mouth opened a crack, as if he was about to say something, then he abruptly spun around and swept out of the tent.

  Quain shifted his chair to face Cory, bent forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, and laced the fingers of his hands together. ‘This is a very unusual situation, well outside the expectations of not only the commanders but the rest of the men too. Men who find themselves under new commanders. Almost all of them are green, too young to have ever seen a real battle. It’s delicate and, as you say, we do not know what we are dealing with. The only thing I am sure of is that it’s going to be something. I suggest you quietly make your way around the camp for a while, and put on that cook’s hat. No one will notice who you are in the dark. See if you can find out what their fears are. That is the first place you can lose a battle, in the men’s minds. And make sure you pass by the cavalry regiment.’

  Cory slid off the chair and stood. He collected the bowls and spoons in the black stew pot, pushed the cook’s hat onto his head and faced Quain. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘For what? Making you look ridiculous in a cook’s hat?’ Quain grinned.

  ‘For coming.’

  ‘I would say “my pleasure”, but war is never that,’ he replied, with a wink.

  Quain watched the empty tent doorway long after the young prince had left and tried to picture the old general in his place. What would he do now? Melancholy settled on him like the unwelcome relative he always sought to avoid. Feeling like this would do him no good, so he left the tent wearing a smile and searched for a campfire surrounded by stories of great deeds to which he might add a few of his own.

  Cory meandered through the tents, lifting his feet over guy ropes barely visible in the dim light cast by camp fires. All the singing had ceased, replaced by the quiet bubble of voices in conversation. There were grumbles about blistered feet, the unremarkable stew for dinner, someone’s snoring the night before and uncertainty over what was to come. Nearer the cook’s tents, a group seemed engaged in the telling of tall tales that periodically prompted peals of laughter. The sound of gaiety was out of place with the returning desolation Cory felt. He dumped the stew pot and hat on a table in the cook’s tent and then followed the sounds of nickering horses corralled on the outskirts of the encampment. A dug out dyke before an earthwork bank fortified the edge of the coral. The sound of Junaid’s voice carried out of the nearest tent. Cory leant his elbows on the newly built fence and watched the big Vale horses jostle and settle in the gloom. Voluminous tails swished from the hind of patchwork bodies as he listened. Was this all there was to being a scout? Was it really this easy? The men badgered Junaid for a report while he poured himself a cup of something. Cory heard the sound the cup made as it hit the table and Junaid’s voice started again.

  ‘We had better watch our own backs, I think. This army finds itself led by the only bunch of boys the politicians and the rest of the command would let the crazy old general take away to teach. I tell you they got too sentimental. They should have told the old man his day was done and make him retire gracefully with some dignity. I don’t know what he was teaching them in that castle, but it sure wasn’t the reality of logistics and troop movements. Does the new general really think moving an army around for no purpose is like moving wooden play pieces around a table? That’s what he had them doing. I’ve heard the stories. My cousin is a stable hand up at the castle. He’s seen this briefing room.’

  Another soldier replied. ‘Oh come on, Junaid, Lord Silver is here, the living legend. You said so yourself. A veteran of the Battle of Beldon Valley and more.’

  ‘I’m not so sure we haven’t all been taken in by the great Lord Jester. As far as we know he hasn’t seen a battlefield for over fifteen years and “Jade” the Archmage spent half his time staring off into space. I wouldn’t bet against his brain still being addled… or he’s losing his wits before his time.’

  The men fell silent for a while and when they start
ed talking again it was a murmur so low the words made as much sense as the babble of a woodland brook. Cory launched himself off the fence with a push from his elbows and started the walk back to the church hospital. His eyebrows were pinched together in a frown as he stared at the ground. The way forward seemed as impenetrable as the soft ground he walked upon. He wondered whose fears he was supposed to find out here. Plenty of his own had crept in to be counted.

  Cory lay in the dark hospital, Zeivite in the next bed appearing no more than a mound like the makeshift camp fortifications outside. His troubled mind wouldn’t rest, filled with pictures of his grandfather’s red-rimmed eyes smiling with his ears and mouth that could barely be seen beneath the beard and moustache. If Cory looked into the memory of the wild glint in his grandfather’s eye, the border between spirited and mad seemed to clash like the battlefront between opposing armies. He needed to sleep. He thought of the words of the silly song the soldiers had been singing to take his mind off his troubles. Silver and Jade, Burnin’ up the bad guys. Lord Jester. No, ignore that. Rolling onto his side, Cory hummed the melody to the song.

  ‘Stop humming that ridiculous tune,’ Zeivite croaked, then cleared his throat.

  ‘It is kind of catching,’ Cory murmured.

  ‘So is Arvail jungle fever, and you wouldn’t want to catch that. It makes your ears bleed. Go to sleep.’

  ‘I understand, you don’t like the song.’

  ‘It is silly. The words don’t fit the tune properly. There’s one too many syllables in the “follow” in “Follow Silver and Jade”, just for a start.’

  ‘You have analysed it an awful lot for something you don’t even like.’

  ‘It’s a curse I cast upon myself. Go to sleep.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ said Cory.

  Zeivite sighed. ‘It does make some sense. It is, if nothing else, a short history of our career, as you might call it.’