The General's Legacy - Part One: Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  He looked at her. She wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, meet his eyes and the smile was still there. Oh that, she wants me to be honest about that. Oh well, how much harm can it do? he thought. ‘It’s a special protocol,’ he said, letting the statement hang for a moment before plucking up courage to continue. ‘It’s reserved especially for young ladies that are incredibly talented and beautiful violinists with smiles that, it turns out, I can’t get out of my mind.’ Did I really just say that out loud?

  He felt her grip on his arm tighten. He chanced a look at her. She wasn’t ready to look him in the eye again just yet and had a different smile. This was new. She was blushing.

  They walked on in silence until they got to the tree on top of the hill. From this vantage point, waterfalls could be seen spilling down the sides of the valley for miles in each direction. Cory sat under the tree, expecting Julia to sit next to him. Instead, she lay on the grass, resting her head on his lap. She was wearing a warm smile — now without the mischief.

  He caught her gazing at his face as she looked up from his lap. It couldn’t have been his most flattering angle. As if reading his thoughts, Julia laughed.

  ‘What is it?’ Cory asked, half laughing himself.

  ‘I can see right up your nose.’

  ‘Well, sit up then,’ he said, tickling her sides.

  She doubled up laughing, and once the tickling subsided she sat on his lap with an arm around his shoulder and looked into his eyes. She still didn’t really understand why it worked when a girl puts so much effort into making her hair look neat and stylish. The first time it was an accident. The second time got her thinking. By the third time she tried the experiment, it was no longer a coincidence. Messed-up hair half over her face seemed to be a perfect way to get the first kiss out of a boy. Of course, the boys concerned were left broken-hearted when she left them. Julia wasn’t a teenager anymore and wondered if her strategy was going to work on a man, then realised she was nervous because it seemed to matter that it did.

  Cory took the bait hook, line and sinker, leading to one of those memories that would be tucked away for a lifetime.

  Finally, failing light and pair of growling stomachs brought on giggles. Julia looked into his eyes again, her nose touching his. In a husky whisper, she said, ‘Those girls on the bridge missed out, you know.’

  ‘Aye?’ said Cory.

  ‘The ones waiting at the end of the swimming race,’ she said with a sweet smile he couldn’t see.

  Sebastian, or Greta. Most likely both. ‘You know about them? I haven’t thought about them in years.’

  Julia giggled again as she spoke. ‘I think my lips and tongue actually need a rest now. Let us go.’

  Leaving the hilltop arm-in-arm, they headed for the best place in Tranmure Cory knew for solving a hunger problem.

  ***

  Sitting at the dining table, Julia dangled her legs over one of Cory’s on the bench, eating and talking. Mrs Samshaw watched them from the doorway and remembered a time when a man had looked at her the way Cory looked at Julia. Jack Samshaw was not a warrior by nature, but with a soul so strong it took a Ripper to snuff him out. It was a scar that Delilah Samshaw had born well for fifteen years. Just not right now. She bit her lip and heaved a sigh, leaving the scene to find something to do.

  Back at the doorway to the lodge, Cory and Julia shared the inevitable kiss goodnight. ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow evening,’ Cory promised.

  Julia nodded vigorously. ‘And the next evening. I’ll be sad if you don’t.’ She closed the door.

  Cory smiled and turned to head back to the main palace. The hour was late; darkness had long since thrown its blanket over Tranmure. As he walked, Cory noticed a soft yellow light cast out from one of the ground-floor windows. It was Pragius’ office. He’s working late, Cory thought.

  Chapter 4

  Developing Talent

  The first Battle of Beldon Valley 1842.

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

  Deaths: approximately 2400.

  Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by King Klonag Ferand.

  Deaths: approximately 4000.

  — Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo

  Early summer, in the year of the Church of the Sun, 1867.

  It was large, black and glowed orange around its edges; it was distinctly out of place in the fire nestled among all the other smaller coals. A miner somewhere not far from where the bloated coal now burned too slowly to be acceptable had not performed his task correctly. Now he was going to have to finish the job himself.

  Ridiculous.

  Stabbing at the centre of the coal with a fire poker failed to split it, instead pushing it further down into the fire. He stabbed at it some more, chipping fragments from its shiny black surface. The coal refused to budge or split. The other coals shifted and danced around it with every blow. Hacking at the edges of the black abomination chipped larger fragments off it, but defiance was still its ultimate response.

  The hurled poker struck the hearth with a clang that echoed around the throne room, chased by an accompanying roar vented from King Klonag’s throat.

  He marched back to the large table in the corner of the room, slamming his fists down on the table as he sat. A fist for each son that sat either side of him. They didn’t flinch, but guards and attendants jumped in unison with the pewter goblets on the table. A large piece of parchment spread over most of the table. It had been there so long that, if it were lifted, pale, clean wood would be revealed beneath. An oil lamp cast a constant yellow glow over the whole of Nearhon, Valendo and Emiria depicted on the aged parchment. On the map, Nearhon was topped by frozen tundra and flanked on both sides by heavily drawn mountain ranges. The map was an unreliable informant. Conspicuous by its absence was Dendra Castle. Around the area where the castle should be, the parchment was smudged and worn. Right where the castle stands true, the parchment was punctured by the relentless stabbing of Klonag’s finger and his father’s finger before him. Beneath the puncture wound, the table wood was scarred. The map’s betrayal included the road of dreams: a long road leading from Bytper, connecting Plain Lake City, down through Beldon Valley and eventually out to freedom at Halimouth and the open sea. Unlike the expunged Dendra Castle, the road existed only in the dreams of Nearhon’s king.

  ‘This is taking too long,’ barked Klonag.

  ‘Majesty...’ The word was spoken slowly with a quicksilver tongue from shadows the oil lamp failed to penetrate. ‘A thing of beauty and power such as this takes more than a month or a season to be born. You need more… patience to reap the promised rewards of this grand plan.’

  ‘Patience is all that I have had for fifteen years. More grey hairs, rotted teeth and the continuing decline of my kingdom have been my only rewards. Patience, Magnar, has overdue debts to be paid!’ Spittle flew from the king’s lips with the last word. ‘The general of Valendo has been old and past fighting on the battlefield for years. What have we waited so long for?’ It was a mostly rhetorical question.

  Magnar answered with forced patience. ‘Because, Your Majesty, as we have discussed before, many times, Garon’s greatest strength never was in his sword arm. I can see that today is one of those days that is stretching Your Majesty’s resolve more than usual. What else upsets you?’

  That blasted, oversized lump of coal in my fire, for a start, he thought. It was a thought Klonag kept to himself. The list he made in his mind was long and lacked glory but included the inability of any builder in Nearhon to keep melt water out of his stables and his otherwise most productive gold mine in what passed for summer each year. In place of a pitiful rant, Klonag settled for silence.

  ‘I will see what I can do to ease your mind, my king.’ Magnar spoke some slippery sounding words, weaving their power through his fingers. ‘Now. I think it would be a good idea for you to forget all about this map and the time that you don’t want to wait.
’

  Klonag suddenly thought what a good idea it would be to do something other than sitting at the table with the map. Any contrary thought dealt a sudden headache. I should get back to what I was doing before.

  Fire poker back in hand, he stabbed at the oversized coal in his fire. He was so absorbed in his task that he grew cold as the other coals turned to ash and the obstinate chunk persisted. The bucket by the fire was left ignored and crammed full to the brim with fresh coal.

  Magnar drifted quietly out of the throne room. He picked his way through the corridors of the castle that dominated the cliff line above the dark stain on the snow, which was Bytper. On the battlements, he could look down on the city in one direction, and in the other he could see over ice fields streaked with dark scars that functioned as roads leading to small mining towns. Sulphurous air assailed his nostrils. Raised battlement merlons competed with coal fire chimneys for skyline space. Black smoke rose up and early summer melt water bled an arterial gush from either side of the castle onto the city below. To the north, a thin, icy ledge clambered away from the castle up to the peak of Silverback Mountain. At this time of year, it looked its name, one face vertical, dark and free from ice and snow, and it's back gleaming in the sunlight.

  The thin icy ledge was Magnar’s world. A foot wrong in one direction and it was a long plummet to treason, a foot wrong in the other and it was the slippery slope to ruination at the behest of the King’s impatience. Klonag was not the sort that revelled in the experience of a slowly evolving, ever so clever, elaborate and beautifully executed plan. Life for Klonag was all about the objective he could never reach quickly enough. Magnar had just taken a step towards treason, twisting Klonag’s mind away from the slippery slope to ruin. The drawback with mind-control magic is the gap left behind in a subject’s memory. A gap that is painful to try and recollect. If Magnar did it too often or for too long, he risked Klonag becoming suspicious. The king’s sons were little better than thugs with swords. A book was something you stood on to reach high shelves or prop open doors to them.

  Magnar grinned at the precariousness of his situation, a narcotic high as great as the magic he employed. If either of the two princes came to the throne, the ensuing chaos would provide even greater opportunities for grand-scale experimentation.

  A purple-robed man melted into existence beside the grinning archmage of Nearhon, who, without acknowledging the new arrival, spoke. ‘Rancave… I think we are going to have to… move things along with our subject. He may have discovered enough to fill the void within himself. Become… too comfortable with where he is to push further.’

  The face of the young man within the robe’s hood dropped like ice calves from a glacier. ‘Master, the book is very far away. The distance is so painful to bridge for our communications.’ The words came quickly and his haunted brown eyes darted around, as if they were trying to search out dark corners and hidden places in the snow-brightened day.

  ‘Magnificence… demands sacrifice from us. You should try to recognise this pain is your privilege to endure, and you’re right to contribute to our venture. We will do this together, in your chamber. Now.’

  The two mages left the battlements. Magnar quietly drifted while Rancave stumbled after him, checking behind, above and around them as he went. He cradled something precious close to his chest: his remaining hand — the one that corporeal shadows in the night, not of his imagination, had left him with.

  ***

  Pragius strode through Tranmure’s streets with a new sense of purpose. Summer sun gleamed off snow-covered mountain peaks, from where an occasional cold breeze blew. The veil of fatigue he felt was a comforting blanket that kept him warm whatever cold wind and colder words threw at him. His mouth watered, but not at the memories of breakfast or anticipation of afternoon tea. No task was too dull or troublesome so long as he had the night, the book and the delicacies of discovery it served. His task now was to attend to a disagreement between house builders and cargo masters over access ways. Not the most salubrious of locations for new dwellings, but if convenience was a priority when your work meant you went to the river docks daily it was ideal. A little low-key a problem for royalty, maybe, but it was nevertheless a project on the critical path to Tranmure’s continuing development that would benefit from a little direct authority to resolve.

  Pragius’ breed of articulate, logical authority was now almost as effective as the king’s. A bit of giving here and taking there with scores even on both sides and an evolved plan avoided days of hearings and a pile of paperwork.

  Easy.

  Too easy.

  As easy as the cattle find it to chew cud in the fields near the edge of the city where Pragius stood mentally mapping the new layout of the agreed access ways.

  Cowbell clanks sprinkled on the backdrop of a rhythmic pulse of water splashing onto a turning wheel. The waterwheel attached to the mill driven by a channel of water separated from the river. Pragius pulled from his mind the purpose of this mill, quickly recalling wool weaving. A short walk back up the river led to a similar waterwheel on another mill hidden behind the tall walls of a cargo transfer yard and warehouse. This wheel drove a millstone for flour. Pragius remembered well what this mill was for. He tried to keep it out, but the name ‘Magdeline’ flashed through his mind, scolding his heart on the way. Regardless, Pragius took the shorter path through the dark, narrow alley between the yard walls and mill house.

  A roaming rodent scratched around in the alley, rooting out forgotten grains of wheat. A conduit of disease and a harbinger of destruction for flour and grain sacks. The rat looked up at Pragius. Pragius looked down at the rat. A thrilling idea blossomed in his mind as excitement did the same in his chest. He turned his consciousness to the bright energy he perceived at the edge of his mind and spoke a couple of short sounds, nonchalantly pointing a finger at the rat. Magic leapt through his mind, streaked down his arm and a white bolt of energy leapt from his hand towards the rat. The unfortunate rodent vanished in a puff of smoke, fur and skin.

  ‘Wow,’ Pragius whispered to himself.

  The sense of excitement passed and was replaced by a faint ache in his head and chest. Pragius suddenly looked around in alarm and listened for signs of people. Nothing and no one responded in this quiet part of Tranmure. He walked at a brisk pace past the greasy patch on the ground that was once a rat. Heading back to his office, he pretended to himself that he was eager to prepare for the next day. The most exhausting day of the month. The council of representatives. Oh, that heady mix of politics, posturing and accounting for the decisions you made and the ones you failed to make.

  Pragius sat in his office with the faithful light of day illuminating everything within. In Pragius’ mind, a different light shone brighter — the light no one else could see from the magic he was now able to call upon. It was making him an earnest promise, the promise of a new challenge the like of which he had never been shown before. He had to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting. He placed the alien thought aside, but it soon stubbornly returned. It brought with it a sharp stab of pain to his brain. Addiction gripped him — the narcotic effect of the next new revelation.

  The book was now open on the desk. Pages near the middle displayed symbols that swam and danced as Pragius accessed that minor magic that forced them into order. Their meaning now seemed deeper, darker, more determined and wondrous than ever before. Hours passed and he thought he understood the connections, the ways to make the reversals and shape the energies to do the impossible. He spoke the new sounds that cannot be called words and concentrated on the resulting sensations. His reverie broke — buzz, tap, buzz tap tap, buzz, tap. A dung fly, too ignorant to comprehend the nature of glass, repeatedly failed in its futile attempt to return to the outside world. The daylight played beautiful tricks with the fly’s fat body, casting blue-green hues on its back as it beat itself against the invisible barrier.

  Pragius lost patience with the distraction; he stood a
nd flicked his hand, making contact with the fly. His mind suddenly swirled with a brand-new sensation that raised his heart rate and shot adrenaline through his veins. The rush was short-lived but lasted longer than the life of the unfortunate fly now lying legs up on the book.

  Weird beyond words.

  Pragius was wary of touching the fly again, but no longer wanted it cluttering up the cryptic text in the book. ‘Buzz off,’ he said.

  The dead fly lacked understanding and brain function to make its body move.

  People are so strange sometimes to expect sentient behaviour from inanimate objects. Pragius smiled to himself. He didn’t know where it came from, but the will for something else new filled his mind.

  ‘Buzz off and find a dung pile to rest on!’ he said. There was magic behind the words. His body reacted with a twisting stress in his chest and pain in the brain from the new path this magic took. The fly flipped over on the book. Pausing only for a heartbeat, it took off and navigated a path out the window and into the sunny day. Pragius lost sight of it, but it flew above the rooftops of Tranmure and took a course south. It passed over the flour mill and the wool mill by the river. Over the river dockyard, where the melody of cowbells could be heard, the fly headed towards the docile beasts meditating on their cud. The fly came to rest on a dung pile and never moved again.

  The book permitted Pragius a good night’s sleep. After all, he had done so well and needed recovery time after the shock.

  ***

  ‘Still, steady growth in demand for finished metal goods to Ephire, weak demand in Cavail…’

  One of Duce Eden’s infamous monologues droned on. As before, he was decked out in something considered the latest summer fashion, sitting alert and stuffed full of his own self-importance. Eventually, his discourse meandered onto a subject that he never left alone for more than one meeting.