The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy)

by Foster, Michael

  Samuel quickly looked about to see if his friends were safe. Eric was a short distance away. Two swords hung in the air beside him and defended him from a duo of armoured guards, spinning and cutting through the air as if possessed. He looked worried, but not nearly as worried as the two soldiers, for they regarded the magical swords with terror, barely able to defend themselves.

  Grand Master Anthem was deftly avoiding a flurry of spear thrusts; then, turning over his shoulder, he dropped the soldiers around him one by one with his knotty spells. As soon as one fell, however, another filled his place and more soldiers were rushing in from all around. Anthem was a master of magic, but he was old and even he had his limits. Just when Samuel thought the old man was about to be overcome, a surge of magic burst out from him and the ground thundered violently. The men all around the old Grand Master dropped to their backs and lay still as if dead. Anthem stood at the centre of the scene, surveying the litter of bodies around him.

  A number of guards had observed this and with one riotous battle cry, they charged in around Anthem, their weapons raised. The old man disappeared amongst them with grim defiance set on his face.

  ‘Go, Samuel!’ he bellowed from beneath the men. ‘Get to the Emperor! Do what you must!’

  Samuel momentarily feared the worst for the old man, but the Grand Master’s furious curses could be heard above the shouts and cries and tumult of weapons that issued around him, so Samuel knew the old magician was not done for quite yet.

  A shrill woman’s cry drew his attention and Samuel looked to the palace stairs once more. The Emperor was now hurrying back down towards them. His bodyguards were gone and a score of plain-clothed men were bounding down after him with swords held high. The Emperor stopped and turned about, drawing his sword and decapitating the nearest man in one spinning movement. The others slashed at him, but the Emperor was bound in such spells that their blades found his flesh as hard as iron.

  Darting through the melee, Samuel made his way to the foot of the stairs. He heard a great crack and a quick glance over his shoulder showed the palace gates open once more, and a horde of armed men was pouring through, all shouting as one as they charged in to join the fray. General Ruardin and his closest men had bounded up the stairs to help their Emperor, leaving the five Lions free to begin throwing their spells out towards the incoming soldiers. They each threw spells like a child throws stones at an ants’ nest, with each clot of magic exploding amongst the soldiers and dropping them by the dozen. From somewhere else, a Great Spell bloomed and a mountain of earth drew itself upwards from the palace grounds, forming into a giant monstrosity of rock and soil that began swatting at soldiers with its great fists. It was a mighty spell, but Samuel had not a moment spare to even begin considering it.

  He leapt up stairs by threes and reached a small pile of black-cloaked and armoured bodies. He dropped to his knees and began pulling them aside until he found what he sought. Slick and warm with blood, the Staff of Elders seemed to be humming, almost as if waiting for him. He grasped its haft and stood tall, looking up towards the magic-encased Emperor with determination.

  The relic in his hand felt ready. It had been waiting and now, someone worthy had found it. Such power ever begged for release—to be rid of the confines of its imprisonment and be vented into the world. Such power could be hard to resist for any magician, but Samuel had no intention of even trying.

  He opened himself to the ether, but something unexpected caused his mind to reel. The power in the Staff leapt into him, surging up his arm and into his chest, filling his body and burning its way into his core. He could not have foreseen such a feeling and, once summoned, he had no way to stop the power from filling him. The sky above swam drunkenly and the great marble walls of the palace twisted and turned in place. The death cries and battle cries behind him sounded like long, slow moans. His heart made a crashing sound as it boomed within his chest, sending a surge of blood along his arteries and veins. Looking at his fingers, he could see the tiny capillaries bulging inside them. Smoke came hissing from the wood beneath his skin. Samuel looked up at the Emperor intensely, feeling the power of the Staff of Elders erupting inside him.

  General Ruardin was bounding up the last stair to defend his Emperor. Beads of sweat were dripping from his brow and into his eyes and the man’s last footfall seemed almost frozen in time, as he hollered and squeezed his sword tightly in his hand, holding it forth to defend his charge.

  The Emperor was calm and defiant as he faced his attackers, splitting the air crossways with his weapon, slicing open a man’s belly and letting his innards come spilling out at their feet. Another man was stepping in beside him; a man Samuel knew. His face was set with desperation, for his fellows all lay in their own blood around him. His eyes were wide as he desperately took his one chance to kill the man he loathed. His thoughts were set on this one moment of opportunity. He had his sword raised high and he was bringing it down upon the Emperor with all his vigour, like a beggar leaping onto a sudden stray scrap of bread. He had no green cap on his head today, and he was dressed as a palace servant, but Samuel knew the man’s face well.

  Confidently, the Emperor began to ready his sword to pierce his assailant’s stomach, bringing its razor point around and up from the previous strike. His intention was not to defend himself, for he was invincible in his layers of spells, but to gut the man before him. He was not concerned with any sword stroke he could receive. He had lured these assassins back out onto the steps, away from the Empress and his unborn heir, and now he would kill them neatly and efficiently. The Emperor’s lips turned up to form a smile as the two men’s blades pressed towards each-other. The other man saw the Emperor’s blade pressing towards his belly, but continued nonetheless. He put all his effort into bringing his sword down with all his might, so that the muscles from his fingers to his shoulder strained and bulged. Both blades met flesh and began to press against taut skin.

  Samuel, empowered by the Staff of Elders, could see each layered spell around the Emperor—interwoven, tied, reinforced and braced against each other to be completely impenetrable to both blade and magic. The spells would spare the Emperor from being crushed, poisoned or drowned, from being beaten, burnt or suffocated. They gave him strength and agility beyond the realms of normality. They would even protect him from time itself. The Archmage had thought of every possible threat and had used the Staff of Elders to cast protective spells around the Emperor that could not be penetrated or dispelled by normal methods. The only disadvantage of this was that the spells must be recast every single day to remain potent.

  Samuel could see where each spell stopped and the next spell started. He could see all the traps and the misdirections that the Archmage had planted. He had the most powerful source of magic in the world in his hands and he did not need any further excuse to act. He only had to act quickly, for he had only been holding the Staff for the space of a heartbeat, but he could already feel his flesh beginning to smoulder and char.

  He stripped away the Emperor’s defences as one, as easily as he could tear a tablecloth away from a table and leave it fluttering to the floor. Then, Samuel released his hold on his magic, and time sprang back to normal speed. The world seemed to leap back into life around him.

  A spray of blood flew up into the air like a scarlet geyser as the Emperor and his assailant fell together down the stairs. The Staff of Elders dropped at Samuel’s feet as he shook his head and gathered his wits. He loped up the stairs towards the fallen pair on the palace steps, for he was not sure of what had occurred.

  General Ruardin, encased in his golden armour, was kneeling over the Emperor. As Samuel neared, he could see the Emperor’s eyes were bulging from their sockets and his head was nearly cleft right from his neck. Tulan’s man lay dying beside him, with the Emperor’s blade buried up to its hilt in his belly, jutting out his back.

  ‘By the nine gods!’ Samuel declared aloud. ‘What have I done?’

  General Ruardin said, loo
king at his fallen leader with a gaunt expression, ‘Don’t worry, Magician. You’re too late. The Emperor is dead.’

  Samuel looked to Tulan’s friend. The last few embers of life were draining from him as he lay outstretched on the stone stairs, but as his eyes rolled towards the dead Emperor, he managed to form the briefest of smiles.

  General Ruardin lingered over his fallen Emperor as if he had been turned to stone and Samuel had to shout at the man to get his attention.

  ‘He’s dead!’ Samuel said. ‘Stop the battle! Your men are killing everyone.’

  The general stood on weary legs. He pulled off his golden helm and let it drop clattering down the stairs. He looked to Samuel with tired eyes, for the Emperor he had spent his life serving and protecting was now dead. It looked almost as if he, too, had been stripped of his life.

  Just then, the Empress came rushing down beside them, dropping onto the body of her husband and wailing loudly.

  Samuel looked to below, where the palace grounds were now thick with armoured soldiers and the magicians were just a few small black clusters amongst them.

  Samuel dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Your Highness! Please, stop your men! The Emperor is dead, but more lives need not be lost!’

  ‘They are not my men, Magician,’ she responded through her sobbing. ‘They are my husband’s.’

  ‘But you can stop them—you are the Empress!’

  ‘Women have no power here, Magician,’ General Ruardin noted sourly. ‘With the Emperor slain, the Empire shall fall into disarray, for there are no sons to succeed him. The Empire is lost.’

  The Empress looked up at the burly man with rage in her tear-filled eyes. ‘You shall have your heir, General! A son will be born to the throne of the Empire. He grows in my belly now. Celios the Seer has foretold it—or did you not hear?’

  General Ruardin nodded, his face showing little surprise. ‘Very well, Empress, the Empire shall be yours until your son comes of age. I only hope it truly comes to be, for the Empire’s sake.’

  The Empress looked back to her husband and closed his lifeless eyes with the palm of her hand. ‘Very well, Magician,’ she said without looking up. ‘You can have your way. My husband is dead. I have no desire for more such death or misery. Save your precious magicians if you wish. Give the command.’

  Samuel felt rejoiced and turned to General Ruardin. The man needed no further instruction as he pulled off one glove and took a small whistle from his belt. He blew two short times and then finished with a long third note. He repeated the series several times and as he did, his men below slowly stopped their actions and looked up towards him.

  ‘Stand down,’ he called out across the grounds, and his mighty voice carried to all edges of the field.

  His captains began to repeat the orders, shouting at the other men to sheath their swords. They hesitantly did so, for the magicians had killed many of their fellows, and their victory had been imminent. Other whistles began to sound and the Royal Guard slowly began to back away and reassemble into their ranks.

  ‘Retrieve the wounded!’ the captains ordered. ‘Quickly! Don’t dally about it.’

  ‘Thank you, Highness! I owe you my gratitude!’ Samuel said and hurried back down the stairs without waiting for a response. He found his friends gathered together on the grass, caked in blood and nursing their injuries. Various old magicians were limping about, looking for their fellows with tear-filled eyes, but they tallied barely a fraction of their initial number.

  ‘Thank the gods, you did it, boy!’ Grand Master Anthem told him.

  ‘No, it wasn’t me,’ Samuel replied. ‘Tulan’s men finished the Emperor.’

  ‘Well the job’s done and that’s all that matters,’ Master Glim said, shaking his head at the bodies all around. ‘What a sorry sight,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘It seems we played into Lord Goodwin’s plan,’ Lomar said. ‘It seems he was planning to kill the Emperor all along and we were used as the bait.’

  ‘So it seems,’ Anthem agreed.

  ‘His dagger was covered in magic,’ Samuel noted.

  ‘I’d say it must have been,’ Anthem said. ‘He must have been designing those spells for a long time and waiting for just the opportunity to use them. He knew the Emperor was unassailable and so he went for the Archmage instead.’

  ‘And with the Archmage dead, the Emperor was vulnerable,’ Goodfellow added, ‘and Lord Goodwin’s men came in to finish the job.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Samuel asked. ‘Where is Lord Goodwin?’

  They all shook their heads.

  ‘Vanished,’ Master Glim stated. ‘I don’t doubt he is fleeing from the city right now. His plan was a success, but I don’t think the Empress will look kindly upon his efforts.’

  ‘But he did us a grand favour,’ Anthem said. ‘Because of him, our work has been done for us—in a way. The blame will fall on him, which is more than we could have wished for.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what he wanted,’ Lomar said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Anthem agreed. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘What of the Staff of Elders?’ Master Glim said, suddenly looking up towards the stairs.

  ‘It looks like High Lord Rimus has it,’ Eric said, peering up towards the stairs, for the Councillors had all come out of hiding now the battle was over and were gathered around the Emperor’s body. Rimus had the magical staff in his hands, wrapped in a length of torn cloth.

  ‘Then let’s go talk with him before he does anything stupid,’ Anthem said. ‘You lot stay here and help with the healing. There are already enough corpses and we need to help some of the injured before it’s too late. It will also help to undo some of the ill-feeling these soldiers now harbour towards us. Samuel,’ he said with a nod, ‘come with me.’

  At that, Samuel and the old Grand Master began up the stairs while the others went to work helping magicians and soldier alike. The Empress had been taken away and a red,satin cover had been laid over the Emperor’s body. Servants and court officials had already begun to pour out of the palace to gasp at the scene and sound their lament.

  ‘Rimus!’ Anthem called as he approached. ‘Keep your hands of that staff!’

  High Lord Rimus scowled back. ‘Well, it seems all your scheming has finally been effective, Grand Master. The Empire will quickly fall into a state of chaos once news of this gets out. You’ve really outdone yourself this time. I’ll see your head is removed before the sun can set on this day!’

  ‘It was nothing to do with me!’ Anthem said back. ‘We all saw it was Lord Goodwin who killed the Archmage and I think we’ll find the men who killed the Emperor, if not Gartens themselves, were in Garten employ. If that proves true, this may be part of a greater move against the Empire and we should check our borders carefully. A new Archmage must be quickly elected. Until then, the Staff of Elders must be placed under the protection of a Manyspell. No one person can be allowed to touch it. It is too powerful to be used without the utmost care.’

  Rimus eyed Anthem carefully. ‘Very well, Grand Master. Unfortunately, it seems I must agree with you on all points. The notion of your treason can be looked into later. Come then, we can see to the Staff at once.’

  Anthem nodded, before turning to Samuel. ‘Samuel, you won’t be needed after all. You had better go help the others then. I will keep an eye on the Staff until it is safely stowed away.’

  Samuel nodded in turn, but spoke up before he left. ‘High Lord Rimus!’ he asked as the men were turning away. ‘What of Master Ash? Have you seen him?’

  ‘It is curious you should ask.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Anthem asked the tall High Lord.

  ‘It seems other foul play was at work today. Lord Jarrod has been found in his room with a dagger in his eye and Master Ash is nowhere to be seen. Either he’s met a similar fate or else he’s responsible. Either way, he has some questions to answer.’

  Samuel cursed under his breath. He had been robbed of his chance to kill Ash onc
e again.

  ‘What of the Argum Stone?’ he asked.

  Rimus raised an eyebrow. ‘There has been no further progress with that infernal thing. I’m beginning to think it was some kind of hoax on Lord Jarrod’s part, but I guess we’ll never know now, will we?’

  At that, the Councillors marched up towards the palace with Grand Master Anthem following at their heels. High Lord Rimus carried the Staff of Elders, wrapped in its cloth, and Samuel’s gaze followed the thing as it went. Its power had been astounding and he found himself already hoping he would have a chance to get his hands on it again soon.

  Samuel then turned to survey the sorry scene below him. People were scurrying in every direction, tending to the injured where they lay or hurrying others away on stretchers. Piles of the dead were already being made—one bright in the colours of the Royal Guard; the other a mound of black.

  Almost every experienced magician in the city had been slaughtered. It was a tragic blow for the Order and it would take years to replace such valued men. Samuel shook his head and started back down the stairs to help as much as he could. It would be a long day yet.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Darkness under Hammenton

  SAMUEL AWOKE WITH an awful headache. It seemed he had been doing this quite often lately, but this time, it was entirely his own fault. He remembered coming back to the school with Lomar, Master Glim and Eric the day before to find Goodfellow. After briefly discussing the events at the palace, the five of them had gone into the city for a night of celebration at The Pride, a favourite establishment of Eric’s. They had drunk much fine ale that night, which was quite unlike magicians, but the death of the Emperor deserved the greatest of celebrations. The ale was chilled magically by the owner, a retired member of the Order who still practised the odd spell or two, and this made the drink much more palatable, for Samuel had never developed a taste for the stuff. He vaguely remembered the conversation from early in the evening and could dimly recall some singing, some terrible jokes and tripping over his own legs as he tried to get to the privy and back. After that, he could not remember very much at all.