Legacy: Book #3, the Fire Chronicles

by Susi Wright

  Of course, it would hurt nothing but their pride.

  They watched quietly as the cavalry moved out of the square, along the cobbled road towards the gates of the city. People hurried from their homes to see loved ones off. All along the pavements, market-sellers and shopkeepers paused in their work to wave; children followed the march, playing with toy bows and arrows or rolling hoops. Hundreds lined the streets, cheering. Guards on the barbican towers whooped and whistled to departing comrades, others rang the city bell, and above them all, the flags of the Capital waved a colourful farewell.

  With fair weather, the army would make good time to the border of Lealand and onward for the long trek to the boundaries of the Known World. Their greatest challenge would be crossing the formidable peaks of the Impossible Mountains, where it was always winter and the passes changed every day, even though they had two intrepid Gaians, who had already succeeded twice, to guide them.

  Chapter 5 : BOUNDARIES

  It was close to midday. Espira and Ardientor were settled together on the seat under the ancient oak in the garden.

  Eager to have a private conference about their feelings, they had returned home with Fralii in a carriage and rushed outdoors, to put their heads together in their favourite spot away from the adults. As hybrids, they both had excellent perceptive skills and sensed each others emotions keenly. Nevertheless, they enjoyed the human habit of conversation far more than their full-blood Gaian peers.

  “Can you feel anything yet?” quizzed Ardientor, frowning, “I don't feel any different. I have felt nothing, since Papa left! And, I can still think . . . anything I like!”

  “Ardi, I already asked Grand-mama yesterday, about edicts.” Espira had the superior air of an elder sister. “She told me that all edicts are different. With this one, won't feel much. We will just be restricted. Certain things will be impossible.” She cast him a knowing look. “You have been trying your powers, haven't you?”

  “Yes, of course I have. All morning!” came the curt reply, then in a secret tone, “Just small things, not so anyone could see . . . down in Grand-mama's courtyard. I can still move air, so I'm sure I could still fly. I only had to think about it and soaked all her dry washing with water from the patio fountain!” His unusual green eyes glowed smugly as they met Espira's even stranger multi-coloured gaze. He grinned and shrugged carelessly. “Even though you were all inside making tea, I think Grand-mama knew. She knows everything. But she cannot do more than Papa has done . . . can she? And, besides, I don't think she intends to interfere!”

  “I tested a few things too,” confided Espira, “harmless things – elements. It's not like when I was three years old. Then, I felt drained, empty. That was different, and it was my own fault! I think this edict has just given us certain boundaries.”

  “Did you not feel angry, that first time, and now? That's my feeling!” the scowl, which seemed to appear more and more frequently these days as Ardi struggled with his burgeoning talents, marred his handsome features.

  Espira understood the pain of his turmoil. Yesterday, her first reaction had been the same frustrated anger, but she'd had years of learning about restraint and responsibility – and reason. Her obedience came not from fear of their father, but respect and love. She assumed her sense naturally came from being older than Ardientor, and having her first major test at a very young age.

  “Ardi, you know it doesn't help anything to be angry. Our decisions are clouded and warped,” It was a tedious repetition.

  “You sound like my teacher – and you are not! Why should I listen to you!”

  He spoke the words in the voice of complete lack of reason. Out of habit, she reached out to influence his mood, finding that power was not available to her. She tried again, by touching Ardientor's arm, but he slapped it away angrily.

  “Don't try that on me, Essie! I am not in the mood to accept help!” He stomped away a few steps and glared at her.

  Espira mused on her discovery. So, we have certain elemental powers, but my projective talent has been blocked. It was no more than she expected. Projection in its highest form, astral travel, would have been her chosen course to aid the quest, and in her father's opinion, of the most danger to her. Rightly so, she admitted. She and her brother were safely bound by the edict, to remain under the watchful eyes of the Elite. There was no way she could reach out.

  “Be glad we have some powers, Ardi!” she retorted. “But, I have a feeling that if we were to leave the Capital, we would have none!”

  Ardientor's sullen expression remained, but there was a glint of triumph in his eyes, knowing she was now powerless to intrude on his mind.

  Espira continued to regard her brother with increasing trepidation. How tempestuous was his nature, like the storm that attended his arrival into Existence. When his anger flared, he might well attempt some mischief under the very noses of their elders. Yes, perhaps the edict should have taken a different form. She regretted hiding so much from her father . . . from everyone. All this time, she believed it to be helpful. She was mistaken.

  *

  The last mountain pine-forest of the borderlands was behind them, covered relatively easily during the morning. The pace of the march slowed as the army descended into Troon, skirting the northern jungles of Lealand. This province was sparsely populated, much of the terrain uninhabitable.

  Ahead, a huge expanse of lowland savannah had been transformed into swamps. Recent rain had flooded the chosen route through Troon, along with several alternate roads. The seasonal inundation had arrived early this year, the rainfall so heavy, the vast lowlands were almost impassable.

  Forced to a snail's pace, riders picked their way in single file, through peat marshes extending as far as the eye could see. They detoured widely to keep out of the treacherous bogs which could suck man and samblar under in seconds.

  Just in view to the south, was the ancient, towering iron-wood jungle which formed a natural barrier, the northern border of Lealand. Even the lower reaches of that were flooded, though dry slopes swept up towards the ranges further south. Vines as thick as a man's arm laced the trees in an impenetrable wall, impossible to hack a way through.

  To the north of their route, the River Troon and its lakes had overflowed to form an inland sea, augmenting the marshes with countless large lagoons. At pains to find higher ground, the company left sight of the jungle behind and pressed on north, cross-country, hoping to rejoin the road. There were many leagues to cover to the boundaries of the Known World, and no time to waste.

  The fliers did their best to guide the ground forces from the air, but some areas were deceptive. Three riders and their mounts had to be pulled to safety when they stepped into the edge of a bog. They and their rescuers had to continue the march covered head-to-hooves in stinking, slimy mud. Even the other samblars were muddied past the knees.

  The column trudged on in this way for many hours, trying to make as much progress as possible before they lost the light.

  By the time the sun dropped below the distant hills in the west, there had been a few mishaps: one man was thrown when his samblar stumbled and he sprained his ankle. Another mount was severely gashed by a sharp branch hidden in the mud. There were delays while the injuries were treated. Aside from that, Luminor urged the company on for as long as the fliers could see to guide them. The samblars were extremely well-conditioned and used to travelling at a cracking pace all day, so they had a reserve of energy left to continue for good few hours. However, as night finally fell, it became too dangerous to go on.

  A thick fog was gathering with the darkness. Visibility was very poor. The deep lagoons which dotted the surrounding landscape were a perfect environment for a plethora of dangerous water-dwelling creatures. In daylight, the fliers had been able to keep a lookout for such hazards. Earlier they had spotted one such beast under the surface of the water, as it stalked the line of riders passing close to the banks of a waterhole.

  This specimen was large enough to swal
low a samblar whole. Gaians swooped down, scaring it off several times, only to have the hungry reptile return, intent on a meal. Eventually, realising the seradon was not going to give up, the archers had to kill it and the bitter, inedible carcass was left to rot.

  Luminor called a halt, signalling the fliers down to help set up a simple camp on a convenient rise of less marshy ground. The area was large enough for the company to find places to sleep. There would be no tents. It was not raining and the wind was negligible. The soldiers took care of their mounts first, unsaddling, rubbing down and cleaning the caked mud from their hooves. The animals were hobbled on tie-lines, along the banks of one of the many streams to stop them stumbling into a nearby bog in the night.

  Warriors and soldiers filled their water-skins and mingled around several camp-fires, each with a meagre ration of bovino-jerky and dry biscuits. Before too long they found their bedrolls or feather cloaks for a few hours sleep on the damp ground.

  Human and Morvian soldiers needed more sleep, but in order to attend to his percipient nature, a Gaian would spend an extra two hours in silent reflection. After three hours of sleep, every warrior would rise an hour before dawn, to meditate and realign his mental faculties for the challenges of the new day. These practices preserved Gaian energies more than sleep ever could.

  Sumar, Xandor and Dak gravitated towards Luminor's campfire, having flown separately all day with their allocated squadrons of thirty warriors. During the afternoon's slow progress, they and several other leaders had taken turns to scout ahead in various directions to find a safe route through the Troon marshes. They were almost as tired as the riders from the stress of the crossing. The following day promised more of the same; there was little new to discuss, but they always found strength and encouragement in Lord Luminor's company.

  His powerful presence infused a sustaining fire to their own considerable energies. It had been that way ever since the early days.

  It was assumed among his closest friends, that Luminor's tireless giving had been driven by the belief that his healing power had accidentally killed his friend, more than a decade ago. None of the clan had ever believed that. The men had frequently witnessed their lord's prowess with all forms of Fire. Xandor had been there at the beginning of the Alliance, when Luminor single-handedly killed the Flame Adder in the bowels of Mt. Varn.

  As Lord of Fire, Luminor was legendary, a boundless force of Nature.

  Chapter 6 : SANCTUARY

  The man's breath was ragged, dragging every bit of oxygen from the thinning air through a throat already choked with terror.

  A hundred metres below, he could hear his pursuers still after him. Not as agile as the man, they had fallen further behind. But still they came.

  These relentless hunters, barbaric cannibals, had murdered and eaten his entire tribe. He grimaced at the painful memory of his beloved wife, another victim, as she fled with him as far as the foothills of these mountains; she had lost her footing, rolling down a scree slope right into their waiting clutches. There was nothing he could do to save her, so he ran as fast as he could. And he was a good runner, young and strong. Being fleet of foot saved his life. But he had been running for two days with no rest. He was so tired.

  He paused on a narrow ledge, jerking the chest strap even tighter to secure his pack for the difficult climb ahead. Above him, towered a sheer rock-face, higher than the distance he had already scaled. Before he took the first step, he knew there would be very few secure footholds. To attempt scaling this cliff was almost as dangerous as facing the hunters. He was glad to have long arms and excellent upper body strength to serve him if a foothold gave way. His legs were trembling already.

  His right calf-muscle was painful from a deep gash. Yesterday, he slipped and his leg became caught between two jagged rocks. Fear and adrenaline lessened the pain. He had no time to check, much less deal with it. His innate positive attitude told him that all would be well. If he could just make this climb he might survive, escape those monsters with insatiable appetites, and find a way through the mountains.

  Perhaps,with their huge clumsy frames, they would not be able to follow him this way. He hoped that they would eventually give up.

  He glanced quickly down. They were still coming, less than a hundred metres behind him. Six monstrous Zorgs, each five times his size. Twelve pairs of piggy eyes peered up at him out of hideous, heavy-jowled faces. Each carried a mace and chain or a long-spear. They were ruthless. He knew they had not rested since they picked up his trail, but they did not look in the least tired.

  Drawing another deep breath, he grasped a rock above his head. With his right hand, he heaved his own weight and the extra burden of his pack upwards, while swinging his other arm to a handhold a little higher to the left. It was a good start, a metre each time . . . but he needed another hundred similar lucky moves to reach the top of the cliff!

  It was daunting. He had to push the thought aside, persevere, hand over hand, find a foothold where he could. Don't look down! Below him came the guttural shouts of the hunters. Some had moved off in different directions, trying to find another way up to catch him at the top. He guessed the smallest one had decided to try climbing the cliff.

  Fear spurred him on. Gasping with the effort, the young Morvian climbed, carrying the prayer in his heart which had been there since the start of this ascent into the Impossible Mountains. O Holy ones, for the sake of all that is good . . . I must ask that these evil ones fall to their deaths!

  His throat burned with thirst, his mouth was dry with fear. The arid mountain air and his rapid breathing made it worse, but determination drove him towards his goal, though every muscle strained and screamed rebellion. He could survive without food for many days, as he had in peace time when his crops failed, and many more times during the war. When the Cymbian mercenaries raided their village and emptied their grain stores, the tribe was hungry for months. The raiders came back every summer after that.

  They were farmers with no more than a spade or pitchfork and little fighting skill, easy targets. They only survived by hiding some of their crop in a cave before the summer raids.

  Cymbians were nothing compared to the Zorgs.

  He struggled against the pain in his fingers, bloody from the jagged rocks. The extra weight of the pack strained his back. He had to make it to the summit. Halfway now, he could see the edge of the cliff-top. There was promise of reprieve. Thanks to the gods!

  The voices of five hunters had faded into the distance, but he could hear the one who tailed him, disturbing loose boulders below. Perhaps the giant had not made much progress from the base of the cliff. The monster seemed to scrabble with increasing difficulty. This Zorg was still three times the size of a Morvian, clumsy like the others and not clever . . . a disadvantage, on such a treacherous ascent.

  The Morvian struggled and the hunter could see it. It had a ruthless will and supernatural strength. In minutes, the Zorg closed the gap, so close the man could hear and smell its putrid breath.

  In the next instant, a meaty fist grabbed his right foot. He gripped tightly around a large boulder with both hands and kicked out with that leg, loosening the Zorg's grip and sending it off balance. Wrenching his ankle painfully, the hand let go.

  Frozen in place, with a desperate grip on the rock, the man dared not look down; he envisioned the giant, both footholds lost, swinging like a huge pendulum on one muscular arm, the heavy legs flailing in thin air. There was an eerie, silent moment when the monster lost its grip, began to fall, and a few seconds later, a sickly crunch as its body broke on the rocks far below.

  With a shaky sigh of relief, the man continued upwards, allowing himself a few short breaks now that pursuer was gone. The summit was in sight and getting closer. He hoped against hope that the other hunters had not beaten him to it.

  Pausing on a narrow ledge a couple of metres from the top, he listened. There were no sounds of life above him or anywhere in the vicinity, no loosened stones or movement of any
kind, nor voices. He flexed his arms and hands to rest them for the next effort and looked up to take measure of the overhang which barred an easy finish to this climb. All hells! Clearly, he would not make it carrying his pack.

  The pain in his leg was almost unbearable; his head hurt from thinking.

  I cannot fail now!

  An idea began to form as he flattened nervously against the rock-face. Thank the Stars, for the foresight to grab some things before he ran. He carefully unstrapped the satchel and perched it beside his feet. Drawing the long rope from his waist, he lashed one end to the pack and the other to his wrist. He shoved the bag a little further onto the ledge, coiling the rope neatly in a pile on top of it. From an outer pocket of the pack, he retrieved two small farming picks and a hammer. With a pick in one hand, he hammered first one then the other into small cracks in the overhang. It was difficult, every strike shook his bones: agronite was harder than granite.

  Finally with a grunt, he pulled himself up to place one foot on the left pick while he tugged out the right-hand one and replaced it a metre from the top. One more heave boosted him up and over the cliff edge; with a hasty glance around to confirm the hunters had not found a way up, he collapsed there for a few moments, exhausted, catching his breath.

  Still worried about his pursuers, he could not relax for long. Sitting up, he braced his feet against a large boulder, eager to attend to his bag on the ledge. Hand over hand, he hauled it up around the overhang. Strangely, it seemed twice as heavy. I am so tired, he thought, coiling the rope between his legs. At long last, his bundle came into sight over the edge and plopped into his lap where it lay safely cradled. Relief washed over him like summer rain.