The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  ‘Orders, sir?’ One asked, gasping and bent over in the saddle.

  ‘How about no —’ Cory yelled the word the soldiers use in the tavern ‘— stupid unauthorised cavalry charges. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?’ With anger in his eyes, he looked at Zeivite and Quain.

  ‘More men if we can get them,’ said Quain. ‘Make sure we contain this. Get the king to the castle and reinforce it. We can’t defend the church. We always knew it would be difficult to defend Tranmure if the enemy got behind the castle and Jeremiah’s wall. The lie of the land is wrong.’

  ‘Abandon Tranmure?’ said Cory.

  ‘It hasn’t come to that yet. We had to abandon Norvale three times over the years.’

  ‘But this is Tranmure!’

  ‘It has not come to that yet. We will have to deal with this lot.’ Quain swept a gauntleted hand in the direction of the fast-marching skeletons.

  Cory faced the cavalrymen. ‘When the way is clear, ride for Norvale and bring down the regiment from there.’ Cory hadn’t seen the warrior priest until now and addressed him. ‘Find Greg and tell him to bring what soldiers he can up to the castle, then stay with Theo and Archie. Get the men off the open ground and into the streets.’

  Zeivite focused his battle sense into the ranks of skeletons marching on their position. There was a void in their midst as impossible to grasp as smoke. ‘Time is short, gentlemen. Come with me and stay close,’ he intoned, without moving his gaze from the marching figures. Taking long, brisk strides, he passed through the field between the church and the lake. His hard boots crunched on the road as he planted his feet in the middle of it, facing their oncoming enemy. He imagined himself as solid and immovable as the ‘old soldier’, the white obelisk in the plaza a short walk down the hill behind him. His eyebrows twitched as he pushed his battle sense outwards once again picking over every detail on the road. Every pebble of gravel, blade of grass, meadow flower and reed growing at the lakes edge. There were fish below the surface of the lake at the edge, attracted by the counterfeit moon hanging overhead. The water went several feet deep into soft mud where bottom-dwelling fish fed on worms and grubs. Zeivite mapped and turned over in his mind everything that lay within a giant imaginary sphere in the path of the skeletons. Cory and Quain took positions at the archmage’s elbows.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Cory asked, concerned at the faraway look in Zeivite’s eyes.

  Zeivite whispered, ‘Oh yes.’

  The white boned soldier formation marched into the imaginary sphere and Zeivite touched his consciousness onto the bright pool of magic at the edge of his mind. It was his source of destruction and creation, his own pain and suffering, his undoing but not his remaking. It was an old and ever present friend, but more than anything it was his source of power. A power that flowed through his mind, down well-used tunnels within hardened walls like the tough skin on the soles of a man’s feet. He shaped the bright flow in his mind with words that roared like nature's thunder and the crashing of sea storm waves onto rocks. He pulled in from the air around him the too-small-to-see stuff from which all things are made and combined it with the power he channelled through the pointed finger of his right hand.

  The white magic made its entrance into the world. Cory watched a point of light leave the forefinger of the mage’s right hand and slice through the night like an impossibly bright moonbeam, disappearing into the middle of the approaching skeletons. For a heartbeat, nothing happened and then the air pushed at their backs and rushed into the light that although gone, had been so bright it left a coloured ghost of itself in Cory’s vision. The blades of grass, meadow flowers and reeds by the lake all around the point of light bent flat on the ground under the force of the inrushing air. The sky groaned under the strain. There was a heartbeat of complete stillness and silence, then a flash of painfully bright light like a hundred lightning bolts all striking at once. The thunderous roar of them all compressed into a split moment and shook the air so hard the breath squeezed out of Cory’s lungs.

  An unbidden squawk escaped from his throat as the air that had rushed inwards with such great force blew back in a ferocious explosion. In its wake, a mesmerising, glowing white corona of destructive fire spread outwards and tattered light like the veils of a thousand ghostly brides trailed behind it. Cory’s vision was filled with the colourful remnants of the fading light. The air hung heavy with the super-heated steam of vaporised lake water. New lake water rushed in to take the place of that which had disappeared in the flash, hissing and bubbling as it came. Ash swirled in the air and mixed with the steam; it was all that remained of everything from the grass to the marching skeletons that had been inside the once imaginary sphere.

  Heartbeats passed and the three men watched as the mist cleared. On the road in front of them, magic coloured energies still dancing on the sphere of an invisible shield, stood Pragius surrounded by ash. By his side, two skeletons remained upright, holding serrated swords and black shields. Pragius was pointing the twig like forefinger of his right hand.

  ‘Wow! Sun’s light and the holy pilgrim fathers,’ Cory gasped, ‘I wouldn’t like to be caught in the middle of that.’

  Zeivite snapped his head to the right, startling Cory into staring back into his eyes. ‘Oh, bad luck,’ he said, then yelled, ‘Block your ears!’ as he jammed a forefinger into each ear.

  Cory panicked and clamped his gauntleted hands to the sides of his head and a clang rang around his helm. This wasn’t blocking his ears. He gazed in horror as another bright moonbeam flashed towards them, leaving behind a small bright white sphere that hung in the air just out of arms reach. For several heartbeats, it hovered in place while Cory looked around wide-eyed while air rushed in at them. All the blades of grass and reeds by the lake were sucked in toward the light before them. Cory shut his eyes and wondered if he could get his helm of quickly enough to block his ears properly. The impossibly bright flash that followed pierced his eyelids. His world filled with a bang, then pain stabbed through his ears and all he could hear was a sound like the keening of every angel in heaven, screaming in high-pitched agony. He fell to his knees, desperately trying to suck in a breath that, for several heartbeats throbbing painfully in his head, would not come.

  He opened his eyes. Everywhere around him powder white ash hung in the air like a hot fog. Curls of white flames licked the air and performed a skittish dance over Zeivite’s protective shield.

  Cory stood up, then pitched over and fell onto his side, feeling as if he stood on the deck of a small ship tossed around in the legendary storms of the eastern seas. He looked up and saw Quain pointing at himself and then him followed by a gesture towards the two white skeletons closing on their position. Quain appeared to be yelling; his lips moved and his teeth were bared but Cory could hear nothing above the angels screaming in his ears. In his peripheral vision, he caught the sight of Greg — it must have been Greg — with his ponytail bouncing as he ran. Why did he pick out a detail like that right now? Valendo soldiers followed him — or were they fleeing from the undead cavalry charge? Where had the cavalry gone, anyway?

  Zeivite now stood locked in a duel of blazing light and wild gesticulations with the undead mage, bolts of energy traded between them blinding both to the sight of each other and the stalemate they were in. It would be last man or monster standing. It was a duel that, if Zeivite was right about Pragius’ limitless power, he had no hope of winning. Cory made some sense of the scene in his mind, calling on all the lessons he had learned about battle mages in that briefing room with his grandfather, and realised winning could not be Zeivite’s plan. It must be about keeping Pragius locked in battle so he couldn’t afford to take his concentration away long enough to simply burn or vaporise the soldiers around them.

  Zeivite was fighting for time.

  Time Cory now needed to defeat the skeleton coming at him serrated sword raised and black shield held ready for combat.

  He hauled himself to his feet and con
centrated his gaze on the ground so that he had a reference to balance that his ears could no longer provide. This wouldn’t take long. Skeletons were fast but not skilled; they were as easy to cut down as chopping sticks for kindling. Cory drew his sword, the yellow jewel eye making its appearance in the dark, and he fought again for balance as the first blow from his new opponent hammered into his shield that he brought up just in time. The blow fell heavier than he was expecting, but he wasted no time as he swung his own sword about the horizontal arc that smashed skeletal pelvises like clay pots. His sword made contact with a swift moving black shield and once again Cory had to move his own shield to fend off another shuddering blow. This was new. Not a bundle of firewood to fight but something hewn from rock and steel. Cory changed his stance, still fighting for balance and set himself into a defensive pattern of movements that there was no time to play around fighting with.

  Somewhere behind his adversary, a bright ball of light, another of those alien moons, appeared blocking the view to the undead mage. Zeivite vanished into a blue star-filled shadow. The trading of magical energy between the two mages quickly resumed, with Zeivite now stood off to Cory’s right in the field by the church. A field once aglow with the beauty of the Summer Light Festival, the smell of roasting meat, the colours of sugared fruits and the beauty of those blue-as-a-spring-day-sky eyes. Why in the world was he thinking of this now? Was this life flashing before his eyes before the moment of death? Or just a madness to match the madness around him?

  Cory struggled for balance through his practiced pattern of movements, coming out of defensive sequences, springing inelegant attacks that were turned aside by the shield or the serrated blade of the skeletal swordsman. He took a few chips off the bones of his enemy who left scratches on his armour in return. All of a sudden a shining blade came from behind and split his opponent from skull to chest cavity. What was left, collapsed to the ground.

  Quain, the Silver Warrior, stepped over the bone remains and pointed behind Cory. He turned to see their horses and several others already mounted and galloping north. Somewhere in the group, he saw Sebastian, a black-robed priest, a man with chiselled features and several other familiar faces revealed in the artificial light from above. There was still only the sounds of screaming angels in his ears and he felt manhandled towards Sunny. Confused about what the plan was, he could do nothing else but mount up and follow Quain’s lead. Quain was focused and severe, like a mountain eagle hunting for its next meal. Arms gesticulating in a clear, direct manner brooked no argument and sent people now sure of what was expected of them scurrying off to obey his commands.

  Cory felt like his feet were on wet sand with a receding wave stealing away the grains from under them. Men dashed everywhere. Horses dashed everywhere. Not all with flesh on their bones. Some went into Tranmure, some headed elsewhere, like the five remaining Valendo cavalrymen who seem to have found a gap and made their break north into the night for Norvale.

  Quain grabbed his arm once again. This time, he was mounted on his white warhorse that seemed to have taken on its own look of concentration. Quain gestured north with both arms pointing and launched into a gallop. Cory spun his head around and glanced across the land. All he could pick up was the scattering of Valendo soldiers in all directions, pursued by the undead cavalry and the freshly dead rising up against their former comrades. Breaking out of that chaos and galloping right at him at an unnatural and terrifying speed came ten… no, twenty? Well, some skeletal horses. They were no longer the beautiful and unique patchwork beasts with boots of hair in colours that matched their patches. They were all the same grimacing fleshless horrors fresh out of nightmares he had never had before. They carried on their backs what had been men only minutes before, each with an identical toothy grimace on their face and holding a cavalry sword aloft.

  Cory clamped his legs onto Sunny’s sides and yelled something he couldn’t hear past the keening angels in his head. Sunny launched them both into the dark after the others at a full gallop. Looking behind, he had trouble seeing through the opening in his visor, but he caught glimpses of flailing bony hooved legs that were ever closer each time he looked. He focused forward again and, being the knowledgeable horseman he was, began to worry about how long Sunny could keep up this pace. He had travelled with speed all the way to Dendra Castle many times before, but never at a full gallop all the way. What was behind him was faster and somehow he knew would never tire however many nights and days they ran for.

  His eyes streamed tears from the blast of air in his face from the speed of their flight. The tree canopy of the forest in the valley leading to the castle rushed overhead and the road they fled down went pitch black. Too dark for a horse to gallop down. Every stone, depression and crack turned into leg breaking danger that the already dead cavalry behind him ignored. How long had they been galloping now? How much longer could Sunny keep up the pace? The answer to his question came as he sensed the straining agony of the horse beneath him and the slowing of the blast of air through the slot in his visor. Those ahead of him must have been slowing too, as they did not pull away. Sunny was gaining on them, but not as fast as what galloped behind as they closed the distance. This is going to turn from flight to fight at any moment, he thought as he saw a bright yellow point of light in the darkness ahead of him. That would be the yellow jewel on Quain’s sword free of its scabbard.

  Cory glanced back right into the empty eye sockets of a charred horse’s skull. He drew his sword and waved it frantically behind him to no avail before it struck him that he could see the sword in the yellow glow of fires. Looking forward again, something flying through the air with a rope streaming behind it came into view. It wasn’t until he followed its flight behind him that he realised it was a giant barbed crossbow bolt. It smashed through the fleshless ribcage of the pursuing horse, the barb catching onto the remaining intact ribs. A heartbeat later, the rope pulled taught and the skeletal horse was yanked out of its flight, dashing it and the rider to the ground in a splintering crash. Other barbed bolts sailed out of the dark, pulling bony horses to an abrupt, destructive halt. Bald men lined the sides of the road Cory sped along. Some fired heavy crossbows into the midst of the macabre cavalry, others wielded maces and swords. Cory copied Quain and hauled a wild, wide-eyed Sunny to a halt and turned him to face their remaining pursuers, blocking the path. The undead cavalry had to stop and take on the fight, now suddenly weighted against them. Boxed in by maybe thirty men, Cory and Quain, it was a matter of minutes before maces and swords took out the legs of the horses from under them and crushed the bones of their riders on the ground.

  Cory sat on Sunny, breathing hard, his hammering heart beating a throbbing pain in his ears. Men all around him started sheathing swords and placing down maces to greet each other with the warrior’s handshake, and words that Cory could not hear. Within the group, he thought he recognised a bald head, teeth with a golden glint, a tuft of a moustache and a beard covering just the chin.

  Cory leaned forward, lifted his leg over the back of Sunny and clumsily slid from the saddle on his stomach. Adrenaline drained away like melting snow by a fire. Dimly aware of being on his feet, managing to scabbard his sword, he turned to face the other men and started to realise standing up might have been a bad idea. A sickly burning feeling bloomed out from his stomach. He felt cold and hot at the same time, couldn’t keep the ground under him from pitching left and right. Exhaustion, throbbing pain in his ears and the inability to balance joined forces and felled him like a wolf pack pouncing on a weakling deer. The keening of the angels in his ears followed him all the way down.

  Chapter 13

  Crisis of Faith

  The Battle of the Tri Valley Pass 1852.

  Kingdom Army of Emiria regiment led by General Mithel Debear.

  Deaths: approximately 1300.

  Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by King Klonag Ferand.

  Deaths: approximately 2000.

  — Excerpt from the War H
istories of Valendo

  Cory stared into flames. They looked odd, alive, like malevolent little demons. The wood crackled and spat, orange sparks spiralled into the air. His grandfather lay on the funeral pyre, flesh sizzling and hissing inside the metal armour. The demons had a hiss of their own and whispered into his mind, We will burn the flesh from your bones and make you one of us. The clasped hands resting on the old general’s chest released and an arm fell. The armour and gauntlet dropped away, landing at Cory’s feet. He looked down, wondering if he should pick the gauntlet up, and if he did, what should he do with it?

  Something hard grasped his wrist and he jumped back with a yelp, his grandfather’s bony hand gripped so tightly, the body pulled free and slid off the funeral pyre. A torrent of sparks flew skyward; the hand let go and Cory stumbled backwards. He looked around and the only person he could see was Sebastian staring back at him with an expression of disgust and contempt in his eyes. Sebastian turned his back on him and walked towards the entrance of the black stone church. A lone violin played a lamentable piece that drowned Cory in sorrow like drunken sleep. He ran to the stage on which the orchestra of one played to beg her to stop. She was there in that shoulder-less sky blue dress that almost matched the colour of her eyes.

  Julia smiled and Cory was relieved, his heart soaring as he mounted the stage, bending to kiss her on the lips as she set aside her violin. She raised a hand to caress his cheek, and so lost in the kiss was he that it was many heartbeats before he realised his face was being raked by the finger bones of a fleshless hand.

  Cory cried out, but the only sound he heard now was the high-pitched, never-ending scream of the angels in his ears. There was a pain on the top of his right thigh. Someone dug the knuckles of their fist hard into the muscle there. He opened his eyes anew, in shock and a familiar face decorated with a precisely shaped moustache and trapezoidal beard stared back at him.