The General's Legacy_Part One_Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  Cory calmed himself and frowned, realising for the first time that the archmage’s eyes were so dark a brown they almost appeared black. ‘Am I awake?’ he asked, unable to hear his own voice and only saw Zeivite’s lips move in reply. Cory felt a touch on his left arm and Pete was there. He signed something with his hands, but the madly flapping birds were too fast to make any sense.

  Slow, Cory signed back, a fear rising inside him that he may never hear again. His head throbbed. Zeivite pushed a hot cup of green-brown liquid into his hands. Cory screwed up his face as he drank the woody, flowery brew. The stern look from the mage suggested to do otherwise would be unacceptable.

  Pete moved his hands again: Finish tea and food, then pray with me.

  Cory took his time, drinking slowly and looking around the room. He sat up in bed wearing the same clothes he remembered putting on the night of the attack on the camp. He wasn’t sure if that was last night or not. It was bright outside, though very little light came in through the windows that were made with many small panes of glass. Two other black robed priests drifted around the castle infirmary visiting some of the other beds. Cory tried to relax, his heart still racing. He counted five other sleeping men covered in grey wool blankets in the room. No obvious sign of their injuries. He picked up the plate he found on the small table by the bed and ate his way slowly through the thick chunk of bread, cheese and an apple. Odd how he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite right now. He finished the food. ‘What happened last night?’ he asked, his own ears deaf to the question.

  Pete shook his head, took the plate off Cory and then pushed his shoulder down to the bed to get him in a lying position. The priest made a show of placing one fist inside an open hand, lowered both hands so they rested on Cory’s arm and then bowed his head. Cory had copied a similar movement many times in church when the faithful around him prayed. So as always, he played along too, clasping his own hands together on top of his stomach and closed his eyes. What would I thank God for right now? An answer eluded him. What would I ask God right now? The list was so long it bewildered him to try and figure out where to start once he had got ‘Why?’ and ‘Why me?’ out the way and unanswered. Instead, he allowed his mind to wander and before long he took all his fears and doubts with him into a dreamless sleep. Or, at least, dreams he couldn’t remember.

  ***

  Cory woke and the aromatic aroma of the ‘nasty’ tea wafted from a wooden cup by the bed to his nose. He sat up, took a sip and grimaced a little less at the taste than the times before as the hot liquid scalded its way down his throat. Early morning light seeped into the infirmary. Caught in its glow, he saw the silhouetted form of Zeivite looking out of the window. Cory pondered over his last memory of the mage pouring out and soaking up the radiant energies of magic. ‘How did you escape?’ Cory started at the sound of his own voice, muffled though it was. The angels scream seemed distant and half forgotten.

  ‘Yes, good morning to you.’ Zeivite’s brow creased with the strain of the slowly receding headache that the recent magical excursions had left him with.

  ‘Sorry, good morning.’

  ‘So you can hear something now. I can transport myself using magic, remember?’

  ‘I thought you had to see where you were going… or has it got something to do with that little stone ornament I put in the floor mosaic at the top of the south-east tower?’

  ‘Well done for making that connection. It’s a beacon. It gives me something to fix on and it lets me sense if anything is nearby. The floor markings show the area that has to be clear.’

  ‘So you can go anywhere that your stone ornament set into a mosaic floor lies?’

  ‘Not quite. The markings on the floor are for your benefit, not mine. I’ll still know if the area it marks is not clear, floor markings or not.’

  Cory sipped at his tea. ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘You slept. The night before the Valendo army eventually managed to secure the routes into the city where it might have turned into a siege. Apparently our enemy lacks the patience for that, or has other plans. Now they have all moved north into Beldon Valley. Our soldiers are fortifying the gap here. Tactically this is a strange move for the enemy, which is disturbing.’

  ‘Disturbing?’

  ‘I think we’ve missed something.’

  ‘I ordered the Norvale regiment to come south. They’ll meet.’

  Zeivite went quiet, sipping his own tea. A black-robed priest entered the infirmary and started to check on the other patients like a mother hen tending her eggs in the hay. Looking up from his cup, Zeivite studied the priest as if he were a book of mysteries to be unravelled that he lacked the qualification to study. He soon gave up and looked away. ‘I’m going to breakfast,’ he said. Without waiting for a reply, the archmage swept out of the room.

  Standing and stretching stiff muscles that had been still too long, Cory imagined an ancient oak in the woods nearby whose gnarled branches he used to climb only a few years ago. The newly arrived priest cast him a momentary glance like the shy squirrels that lived in the oak. Cory caught a glimpse of a familiar face and dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Sebastian?’

  ‘Cory,’ Sebastian replied curtly, trapped by the situation he found himself in. A patient only needed checking so many times and if he looked again now, they would all still be where he left them. He didn’t know what to do next and it seemed too rude to leave so he stood dumbly.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Cory.

  ‘Helping,’ replied Sebastian.

  Cory sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, looking alternately between the floor and Sebastian. He started speaking, near yelling, so much louder than he realised, his ears misleading him in his half-deafness. ‘There is a castle full of… well I presume there is a castle full of soldiers and other people out there, and you’re in here helping. These people need to see their king’s presence, if nothing else. You can’t keep hiding away like this. I’ve watched you for days and you have wasted a ridiculous amount of time on that Jane woman. You’ve no business being involved in that; there are real priests around for that kind of work.’

  Sebastian blinked and twitched at his brother's words, his own anger rising. ‘Well, you’re right about one thing. Caring for Jane was a complete waste of time and you don’t have to worry about me spending any more time with her. She got it into her deranged head that the burning and raising of the cavalry two nights ago was God’s punishment on her for imperfect thoughts and reflections or some such nonsense. She climbed the church gong tower and threw herself off it. I guess we’re not all cut out to be healers of sick minds.’ He paused, staring at Cory, and then continued. ‘Lucky for us, her body was too broken to stand and join the fight for the enemy. Like everyone else I watched die before my eyes before I was ordered out of Gods church to ride here. Ranold stayed. He refused to leave the church. No one questioned him. Isn’t the king supposed to give orders?’

  ‘If you acted like the king, you would be giving orders and maybe you wouldn’t get pushed around by… by everything.’

  Sebastian glared from under the dark hood of the priest’s robe. ‘Being king isn’t exactly my wish. It’s not what I expected or was ever prepared for. Everyone was too busy to have the foresight to support me, give me education… training in what it is to be king. You don’t learn much by watching grandmother strut around lashing people with her sharp tongue, or father hide in his office with Pragius and their books. I don’t even have a crown, just an ancient throne in a dusty, cold castle. So pardon me if I make a bit of a mess of it. You’ve been trained for all of this military life by none other than Valendo’s greatest general. Cooped up in this old castle for years. What did you learn that helps us now? What’s your excuse for losing control of your own army? What’s your excuse for making a mess of it?’

  Cory stood and strode towards the doorway deciding breakfast would be a better companion. ‘I’m not listening to
this. You don’t know the half of what I’m going through. I’ve started having nightmares. But that’s not the worst of it, because what happens and what I see when I’m awake, even in the daytime, is so much worse than my bad dreams. And I can’t wake up from that and find everything is all right. You don’t know what you’re talking about. At least, I’m trying. Why don’t you try and do something?’ Cory was almost out the door.

  ‘Don’t you worry, I will. I’ll go and pray. I’m good at that. You never know, it might help as nothing else does.’ Sarcasm ran a river off Sebastian’s words.

  ‘If God were going to be any help, you’d really think he would have stepped in by now with maybe an army of angels or something. No. As usual, God is not listening.’

  ‘If you actually prayed properly in church when you’re supposed to you might hear God speaking. God doesn’t work like that, remember? He inspires men to do his work and leaves men to sort out problems of their own making for themselves. God gives men free will which they then use to make a mess of things. I can tell when I watch you, you’re sitting there daydreaming about something else, where you’re going to go after church, no doubt…’

  ‘Don’t go there,’ Cory growled. ‘Go and pray to God and ask him to inspire you to do something.’

  Sebastian turned around and glared out the window at nothing in particular while Cory continued.

  ‘You know, most of what is in my nightmares is so unreal I can forget it when I wake. The worst part of my dreams is the bit that’s actually believable. And true. You turning your back on me.’ Cory stormed out the door and down the corridor, vision and attention so tunnelled he barely noticed himself push between Quain and Zeivite in the hallway.

  Zeivite watched Cory’s back until he climbed the stairs out of sight. ‘And that,’ said Zeivite in a hushed tone, ‘is the first time I’ve heard them talk to each other since I got here.’

  Quain dropped his head forward so that his forehead rested on the velvet-covered shoulder of the mage.

  ‘The patients got a right earful, didn’t they? I think I might need extra help dealing with this morale problem.’

  ‘Cory is not his grandfather, Quain. He is serious-minded, more deeply introspective. He will dwell on things; he does not shrug them off the way Garon learned to. Don’t count on him understanding your breed of humour in dark moments, either.’

  ‘He’s more like you, then?’ Quain said, and half smiled.

  ‘Yes, I suppose he is.’

  Quain stood straight again and patted the shoulder he had been leaning on. ‘I’m sure you don’t expect me to wrap Cory in a cosy woollen blanket...’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Tear another piece off him. Though, if he is anything like you, he’ll have torn it off himself by now. Anyway, Cory isn’t the morale problem I’m thinking of.’ Quain gave a meaningful glance towards the infirmary where Sebastian remained and then headed for the stairs.

  ***

  Cory toured the battlements and courtyards of Dendra Castle with Greg. It was a place where he had always had the freedom to run and conquer the five towers, imagining what it might really be like to defend. Boyhood fantasies fell like leaves from trees in an autumn wind. Men piled into the castle like the drifting of those leaves into corners. After two nights, tempers were flaring. Suki fought a losing battle with the castle’s food stores under attack from thousands of men. So far she maintained a sense of humour, remarking on her past boredom at Mrs Samshaw’s endless elaborate tales of feeding armies out of that same food store. ‘I need to loosen up, Greg; I feel like an old tree. How about a sparring session?’

  ‘I suppose I could let you win again.’ A sly smile played under the lip topped by a distinctly shaggy caterpillar of a moustache where a thin line had been a couple of days before.

  The old reception room was now a crowded place full of the clash of steel and grunts of warriors, two of which consented to give up their practice swords for Cory and Greg. Space was made for the two new arrivals that turned to face each other. For a moment, neither moved before Greg started at his old tricks with a feint to the left followed by an overhead swing. Cory took on his attempts with relative ease. Greg was a far better archer than swordsman, especially if you put him on a horse. As a commander, he was as inventive and intuitive as the best.

  The engagement made for a good workout putting heat and blood back into wooden limbs. Signalling a break, the two men parted and Cory went for the water jug by the door. After draining his second cup, he levelled his eyes at the doorway where Quain stood, resplendent in his freshly cleaned armour.

  ‘You and I have some business to attend to,’ Quain told him. ‘Take John with you to your grandfather’s office, where you’ll find your armour and a proper weapon, and come back here as soon as you can.’

  Cory nodded.

  John proved to be remarkably talented at rapidly fitting armour, flitting between the buckles like a crazed bee desperate for nectar. Cory was soon back in the training room, wondering exactly what Quain might have in mind.

  With a disconcerting lack of humour, Quain spoke. ‘I think I just about trust your ability enough to strike me with the flat of your blade. Well, you can try anyway. For the sake of morale, I used to let your grandfather beat me. You haven’t earned that right from me yet... you are not strong enough.’ He let out a hint of humour with a wink before raising his sword between them, the bright yellow jewel in the hilt facing Cory. Cory mirrored the gesture with his own matching sword and Quain spoke again. ‘You can go first, if you like.’

  Whatever Quain’s manners offered vanished faster than a thief in a marketplace with the first of his attacks leaving Cory fighting for balance. It was like a toddler trying to fight his mother to get to sweet treats. Whatever Cory attempted to do to score a hit on the Silver Warrior appeared to be expected, and was as easily slapped aside by sword or shield as sticky little grabbing hands. He began to feel that he was being invited in, only to have the offer cruelly rescinded with a strike to a limb or torso. After a while, Cory settled into his defensive pattern, ignoring the false offers of hope, and the fight became more of a stalemate. Time wore on with the cut thrust and sweep of blades travelling through sequences that started to become mesmerising, welcome, familiar and even comforting. And then, a moment rushed in when Cory suddenly found his eyes locked onto Quain’s through the slits in their visors and the world flipped over. When it stopped, Cory found himself flat on his back. Before he could rise, a boot was placed on his armoured chest and the tip of a blade presented at the point in his armour where his throat would be.

  ‘You need to do better.’ Quain removed his foot and sheathed his sword.

  Cory awkwardly recovered his feet and did the same. ‘I thought I was good at this.’

  ‘Oh, you are good. Otherwise, I would have had you on your back in the first half minute. But there are many good warriors around.’

  ‘I thought perhaps because I could beat my grandfather, I might have fared better.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the old man, but that’s the only way you’ve ever known him.’

  Quain cast a furtive look around the old reception room at the audience still waiting hopefully for more action. ‘Walk with me and we’ll talk in your grandfather’s office. Well your office now.’

  The general’s office was a small room on the top floor of the keep facing north, a short walk down the corridor from the Great Hall. Quain had an odd sensation of seeing a place that was familiar and yet not. It had been more than fifteen years since he last set foot in this room. It was a simple room, free from anything in the way of decoration and yet richly attired at the same time. Memories hung in the air like the ghostly creations of painters and tapestry weavers. Quain shouldered his way into the room after Cory, clawing past the hanging tapestries in his mind, and went to the window with its uninterrupted view over Beldon Valley. Cory stood behind him, the idea of sitting in
the seat behind the desk dismissed from his mind; it would be far too awkward to achieve when still encased in armour.

  ‘Thinking about it, your grandfather would have been fifty-two when we first met. Hardly a youngster. And the truth is, he genuinely beat me the first time we sparred, much to the delight of the men. It was the second time we met when alone that I had him worked out and won. But in the real world, there are no second chances.’

  Cory traced with his eyes every detail he could see of Quain’s sword sheathed at his side. The yellow jewel looked dull and grey, almost like a real closed eye. The differences between the sword Cory now carried and Quain’s were subtle, and only found in the detail of the engravings around the jewel and along the hilt. Symbols and letters like none Cory had seen written anywhere else before.

  ‘How many times did you see the mountain top?’ Cory asked.

  Quain turned around and gave him a confused look.

  ‘I mean, when you first picked up your sword.’

  ‘You’re talking about meeting the lizard man? The spirit in the sword? That’s what Zeivite calls it.’

  Cory nodded.

  ‘I saw no mountain top. Just an endless black ravine with twists and turns. Only it seemed to be a ravine that went in a complete circle. I eventually started recognising landmarks at the places where we stopped.’

  ‘How many times do you think you went round the ravine?’

  ‘I’m not sure really — can’t say I kept count. I went along for the ride grinning back at the creature and I think he gave up in disgust in the end and sent me back.’ Quain grinned as he spoke and finished with a wink.

  Chapter 14

  Beldon Valley

  The Last Great Battle of Beldon Valley 1852.

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