The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy)

by Foster, Michael

  Realising his own shields would not outlast his opponent’s, Samuel sought inside himself for the raging magic he had used to slay the dark-skinned brigands. For some reason, it would not come, no matter how he beckoned or reached for it. ‘What good is such magic if it only comes when it chooses?’ Samuel thought to himself darkly.

  The other magician had not been entirely idle in these few moments and had summoned himself a sizeable reservoir of energy, ready to begin his attacks.

  The stars shone clearly above in the moonless night sky and the light from within the house cast the men in a ghoulish yellow light, one half of their faces lit, the other swathed in perfect darkness. As the magician took a cautious step, Samuel could feel his defences being tested and measured, and so he threw out a hissing sphere of magic at the man before his spells could be scrutinised too closely.

  The magician prepared himself to absorb the blow by strengthening his shielding spells to his front, but was clearly surprised when Samuel’s attack struck with only a flash of light. He only realised the ruse as Samuel’s arms snaked in from behind, pushing slowly through his spells and locking around his neck. The magician was not so easily caught, however and snapped forward at the waist, tossing Samuel over his shoulder and onto the ground. Samuel’s breath was knocked from him and the mage, quick as an eel, wriggled free and away. The man seemed to be as experienced with combat as he was with magic, which was unusual for any mage.

  Samuel was back on his feet in a moment, but had to quickly defend himself as a stream of knives came whistling towards him, flying out of the magician’s hands in a flurry. Each one was sheathed in a spell and carried by magic. Samuel formed the Harmony Stance and made the Second Matrix with his fingers and his shielding spells bloomed back into life. The knives struck in a volley, one after another, and were deflected onto the earth with a spray of silver sparks. Each one took a chunk out of Samuel’s defences, but none made it through.

  Barely a moment after the last blade had been parried, Samuel twisted into Forward Stance and shot his arms out into the butterfly position. His spell ignited with a flash, sending a blast of heat and wind roaring at the other mage, two spells intertwined as one. The magician was engulfed in the sudden roaring bonfire that sprang up all around him. Samuel’s head buzzed and felt light from the sudden flow of power, but he kept shoving magic into the spell as fast as he could, making it burn hotter and higher.

  It was a powerful spell, to say the least, but still nothing like the magic he had summoned against the bandits. The effort of summoning already had him dripping with sweat and shaking with exertion after only brief moments. Still, this fire spell was of masterful proportion—much greater than he could ever have managed in the past and much greater than even he had expected. His teachers would be impressed with his abilities if they knew—perhaps even horrified. Soddan had been right in some ways at least.

  Samuel let his spell burn a while longer before allowing it to cease and the roaring flames dissipated as if blown away by the wind. He looked for the other magician, but could see nothing remaining in the darkness. The bright light of the flames had scarred his vision, leaving him trying to blink away the coloured stars in his eyes and adjust to the darkness once more. Even his magician’s sight could not help, as the scene was a twisted melee of spent magic.

  He took the moment to catch his breath and rub his salty sweat from his eyes. Slowly, a darker blot in the blackness became apparent. The magician was squatting down on the ground with his charred cloak smoking behind him. He was clutching at his face but, surprisingly, he was still alive.

  Samuel carefully stepped closer.

  ‘You are powerful,’ the man rasped through his hand. He had the accent of a northerner, sounding eerily similar to Eric Pot. ‘I salute you. I thought I was the best, but I see now it was a mistake to underestimate you. I could not sense your power, so I was unprepared for such a wonderful spell. Tell me, how did you manage to hide your presence so well?’

  ‘That’s a secret I’m not so willing to share,’ Samuel said. He formed a spell to scry the magician’s mind, but the man was well guarded. He needed some kind of distraction. ‘Get him! Now!’ Samuel commanded out loud, and a hundred armed men came charging in upon the mage from out of the grass. The air was filled with a roaring and clamorous noise as they bore down upon him with their swords raised.

  The mage was a little startled as he strengthened his defences and Samuel caught the few flashing memories that came tumbling out.

  ‘Damn you!’ the magician spluttered as he realised he had been fooled. The charging men passed through him from all directions and vanished once more.

  ‘Your name is Tabbet,’ Samuel told the magician with some satisfaction, ‘and I see we do, indeed, have a mutual friend in Master Ash.’

  ‘So,’ Tabbet said, still cloaked in darkness. A toothy smile appeared there. ‘I see you are curious to know what I know. Is it true? Do you really want such things?’ Tabbet then dropped all his protective spells and a flood of images came exploding out into Samuel’s still-probing mind spell. It took Samuel completely by surprise and he had no time to cut off his magic. The other man’s memories came spilling into him, overwhelming him.

  In that instant, Samuel saw all that Tabbet had been up to that day. He had come up from Gilgarry, asking after ‘the magician’ and he had read each person’s mind in turn. He had met a pretty young lady who had been crossing the street with a smile on her pretty lips and had been greatly amused to learn who she was. Samuel even felt the grin that had crossed Tabbet’s face as he instructed the girl to go and kill herself.

  ‘No!’ Samuel uttered with despair as the scene played out before him. ‘Not her!’

  ‘You see,’ Tabbet informed Samuel, struggling to his feet. His hand came away from his face and Samuel could see hand and face both were burnt raw. ‘I had won before I even faced you. Your girl is dead. No magician should ever take a woman. It is heinous and unnatural. See what your actions have wrought? Your feelings have killed you both.’

  A spell formed and Samuel was powerless to protect himself, still overcome by horror as he was. The ground underneath him exploded upwards, sending him flying limply into the air like a doll and his mind filled with reeling vertigo. He saw some speckled lights—stars—and it returned some sense of direction. ‘No!’ he thought to himself, trying to claw sense from confusion. ‘She’s not dead! It’s a trick! A spell! It’s not too late. It can’t be!’ If he did not act, he was done for, but the realisation was slow in coming. Maybe she wasn’t dead and if he could just finish Tabbet quickly he could reach her in time. It was his only hope and he clung to it for all he was worth. Yes! I can save her!

  Samuel filled with magic as if his senses had been reborn. A click sounded in his ears, followed by a roar as power bloomed within him. He launched himself even higher into the air with a burst of lifting, up towards the star-filled sky. High above the roof of their little house and barn, Samuel hung momentarily. He could see Tabbet waiting below with a blazing spell ready in his hands, searching amongst the soil as it rained down all around him. High up in the pitch-black night, nestled in the dark, Samuel was invisible.

  Tabbet turned as something moved behind him and desperately threw out his spell. The grass there flashed and was incinerated, but Samuel was not to be seen. The man screamed with fury as he realised he had been fooled yet again and he twirled about frantically, urgently readying another spell.

  Samuel landed lightly on his feet a short distance away, blazing with magic. Tabbet spun to face him at the sound of his footfall, desperate to have an end to this affair.

  ‘I have no time to waste with you any longer,’ Samuel hissed. His words crept from his mouth like a column of spiders.

  ‘We shall see, boy,’ Tabbet returned and dropped into the low, Horse-rider’s Stance. He then twisted his toes in and circled his arms around into the crusader position. It was a very difficult and powerful stance, capable of drawing vast
volumes of power in the right hands. Few men could hope to spend such power without threatening to destroy themselves. ‘You should have run when you had the chance.’

  Tabbet sent forth a wall of magic and Samuel took a determined step towards it. The force of the spell fell upon him with the weight of a house, but Samuel was not found unprepared. The air was knocked from his lungs, but his defensive spells held firm. Again, Tabbet cast his spell and again the massive weight struck, booming like thunder and scattering the grass out into the darkness. Samuel, however, could only hear the galloping roar of his own unbridled power growing in his ears—it was as if he could hear the universe in motion, frantic drums of mayhem in his head. Another blow struck, but Samuel lifted his foot and took another stubborn step, leaving a deep impression behind. Tabbet had his fingers desperately twisted into complex formations, far more involved than the normal matrices that Samuel had learned so far. He could only guess where Tabbet had learned such things, for the dark magician’s aura flashed and folded with each movement, concentrating and redoubling with each spell he hurled.

  ‘Why won’t you die?’ Tabbet screamed with frustration. ‘What kind of a magician are you?’ He threw spell after spell and Samuel took step after step towards him with his jaw set defiantly. Each spell was more powerful than the last as Tabbet drew great gulping volumes of power, ignoring the toll it would surely have on his body. An oily shadow now surrounded his aura, clinging to him like sodden fabric.

  As Samuel took a final step, barely an arm’s reach away from the man, Tabbet realised he was lost and turned to run. It was a fatal mistake, for the magician was now defenceless, stumbling away on rubber legs.

  Samuel held his upturned palm towards Tabbet and made a crushing gesture. With a series of loud snaps, Tabbet folded in every direction he should not; a knotted clump of barely recognisable bone and flesh jutting from black rags.

  The joy of magic vanished as Samuel released his hold on the ether. Tears poured from his eyes as if erupting free from his sockets, but he had no time to feel such things. The burning in his bones and the stinging in his muscles would have to wait. He ran over to Tabbet’s horse and swung himself up onto the saddle. Its mind had been paralysed to hold it still and Samuel quickly untied the spell. He kicked the animal in the ribs and spurred it on as fast as it could go, carrying him at breakneck speeds under the pale starlight. He denied what he had seen, refused to believe what could have happened. Thoughts raced through Samuel’s mind on how she could still be alive, but terrible images flashed before him as he drove Tabbet’s horse for the village with everything it was worth.

  Samuel’s heart filled with choking dread when he saw a small crowd gathered outside the Sallow house. He tried to climb down from Tabbet’s horse, but his limbs had become leaden and he fell from the saddle onto his face. He could hear some commotion and some shouts from the house, but the noises were buzzes and drones in his ears.

  Climbing awkwardly to his feet, he staggered on and pushed his way past men and women alike, struggling inside the house and into the reading room. The sight that met him struck like a blow, as if an unseen fist had punched through his chest and seized his heart in its steely grasp.

  Manfred Sallow was sitting on the floor in a pool of blood, clutching the body of his daughter desperately in his arms and sobbing wildly. Despair boiled up into Samuel’s throat, choking him. He shook his head and tried to somehow dispel the scene before him, but it would not go. A knife lay at Leila’s feet, slick with blood, and she and her father were literally covered in the same scarlet fluid, almost as if they had been bathing in it. Her face seemed quiet and peaceful despite the scene, but there was no aura around her at all. She was long dead.

  Samuel scrambled desperately down to Leila’s side. He knew he was shouting something, but he had no control of himself or his words. He tried to take her in his arms, slipping and skidding on the floor, but her father would not let her go and other arms grabbed Samuel firmly and pulled him away. He struggled futilely against them, but he had no strength left with which to resist.

  ‘No! Leila! No!’ he heard himself screaming.

  Manfred Sallow’s horror-twisted face looked towards the onlookers with reddening anger. ‘Why did she do this?’ he sobbed, trembling and shaking with his daughter still in his arms. He hugged her body close against him and continued sobbing, letting out a long howl of despair.

  Samuel was empty. He hung limply in the arms of whomever or whatever was holding him. There seemed to be a block of ice clotted in his chest and the blood had frozen in his veins. She was dead.

  Manfred laid his daughter down and then, grunting and with the great effort of a fattened hog heaving itself from the mud, he clambered to his feet and came lumbering forward like a madman. Samuel made no effort to move as Manfred’s fists came crashing into his face—he barely noticed the fact at all. His head was knocked aside and about, and he felt something that was once pain, but his eyes stayed locked on Leila’s gentle face as the room turned sideways and he struck the floor. Warm, salty blood began to pour through his nose and mouth.

  More hands lifted him and a heavy-set man turned Samuel around to face him. ‘You’d better leave, son,’ the man said, sounding like a voice in a dream.

  Samuel nodded dumbly and took an unsteady step towards the door. He stopped for a moment, letting the doorframe take his weight so he could turn and take one last look at her. The stark image of Leila lying so peacefully, as if she were having some wonderful dream, and the great stains of blood and bloody handprints all over her pale white dress seemed to burn into Samuel’s mind. He felt that his heart was trying to climb up in his throat and he had to take a great gulping breath as the air just did not seem enough. There was nothing he could do. He felt drowned in helplessness and sorrow. Manfred Sallow was screaming and having fits, fighting the men that held him, clawing to be at Samuel, but the young magician barely noticed at all. As he staggered out of the house, his mind could not escape its continuous, torturous knell—she is dead, she is dead, she is dead…

  The Downs were waiting in their house filled with worry when Samuel finally returned. Simpson had come down from the hill when he had heard the ruckus only to find a hole he could bury a couple of cows in at his steps and an inch of soil spread over the house and barn, not to mention the mutilated body lying nearby. He had found his wife shaking and sobbing under their bed and he still had no idea of what had happened.

  With a stuttering tongue, Samuel managed to explain the event with Tabbet and what had happened to Leila. Mrs Down broke down in tears and even Simpson, stoic at the worst of times, had red-rimmed eyes as he tried to comfort her.

  ‘What will you do now, lad?’ Mrs Down asked.

  ‘I am a damned fool,’ he said, choking on his words. ‘I should have killed that bastard Ash three times over by now. Now, he has killed Leila. I’m going to go find him and I’m not coming back.’

  ‘Just think carefully, Samuel,’ old Simpson said. ‘You’ve lost a lot already and you may go getting yourself killed, too.’

  Samuel pushed his notes into his satchel and gathered his things with unsteady hands. He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter now. I’m going.’ He stopped and looked at the old couple squarely. ‘I’m going to kill him at last.’

  ‘Take care, lad,’ Simpson said and Mrs Down crushed Samuel in a great sobbing hug.

  ‘You should play some music to the animals from time to time,’ Samuel instructed. ‘They like it. I’m taking Jess with me, but there’s another horse outside—the magician’s. It’s Imperial stock and sturdy enough.’

  Lastly, he pushed his long-neglected magician’s robes into his bag and left the house. Simpson came out onto the steps as Samuel hurriedly readied Jess.

  ‘You know you’re welcome back any time,’ old Simpson noted. ‘We can never repay you enough. You gave our sad old lives some meaning at last. You’ve been like a son to us.’

  Samuel pulled the last leather straps tight
on Jess’ halter and, after quickly checking things over, threw himself up onto the saddle. ‘It’s I who can never repay the both of you. If not for your kindness, I never would have stayed here—I never would have met her. For the first time in my life, I was free of the death of my family—I finally had the chance to actually live; I escaped from my past. I loved every moment here with all my heart and I will miss you both more than I can express. Goodbye.’

  Samuel kicked his heels and set Jess cantering away, only pulling to an abrupt halt at Tabbet’s ruined corpse. Vaulting down again, Samuel tied the body to a saddle ring with a length of old cord. He would dump the wretched thing in the woods where the animals could have it. As Jess trotted down the stony winding path, Samuel raised one hand in brief goodbye and left the Down farm behind him, with Tabbet’s body snaking behind across the stones.

  At the end of the path, where the Down house was but a distant light on a hill, Samuel brought Jess to a snorting halt. The animal whinnied, her breath making frosty clouds and she stamped her hooves impatiently. Samuel looked to the farmhouse one last time and sighed. He then pulled Jess around and they began along the long, circling road that hugged its way down the hills to Gilgarry, dragging the dead magician behind.

  It was just before first light when Samuel passed through Gilgarry and, shortly after that, he reached Count Rudderford’s estate. The temperature had plunged overnight and a sheet of frost lay over everything. Roosters were crowing and smoke hung low in the valley below. A servant was returning with a cart of firewood, ready to stoke the day’s oven.

  Samuel had ridden through the night and felt wooden in his saddle. All he cared about was killing Ash—preferably, in some gruesome and most painful fashion. Leila was dead—he could not deny that fact—but the thought still felt strange and numb. For now, it was just an empty statement, void of substantial meaning. Leila is dead. He would never again hold her hand, stroke her skin or hear her laughter. The promise of sweet revenge was the only respite from such thoughts and he clung to them like a drowning man to a clutch of twigs.