The Amber Legacy

by Tony Shillitoe

  She followed his gaze to the corpse of the blue knight. Three metal spears jutted from his battered breastplate. On the ground, among the other corpses, her enemy no longer seemed large and powerful. She felt a sudden rush of shame and wonder for what she’d done. Yet she’d only acted to save her love. She’d beaten the dream’s prophecy. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Was,’ the knight corrected. ‘No is anymore.’ He paused, while his horse shifted its weight, and said, ‘He was the eyes and ears of Lord Future’s Rebels, that one—a formidable young knight who was once even the darling of Queen Sunset. They said the Rebel Seers enchanted his armour so that no mortal hand could harm him—although you certainly put that tale to the lie. He was probably the best spy in the kingdom—scouted out information like it was his natural role. Used to be a fair ladies’ man before he lost favour in the Royal Court and joined Future’s little fiasco. That, my young warrior girl, was Marchlord Treasure Overbrook.’

  A cold chill touched Meg’s heart. She remained kneeling, but she no longer heard whatever the old knight went on to say, and she didn’t acknowledge his farewell as he and his servant headed away to enjoy the dying moments of Future’s defeat. Only when they were long gone, and she was alone, did she crawl to the corpse.

  Her dagger handle protruded from behind the blue knight’s knee. Congealed blood blackened the hilt and wound, and flies swarmed over it. The blue metal chest-plate was puckered and warped by the three iron spears, and there were signs that many other weapons had battered viciously against the metal. The man’s death had been violent. Here, finally, lay the nemesis of her dreams, but she could not move, because morbid fear froze her hands. She stared into the faces of the dead piled around the blue knight, searching in hope and fear for Treasure’s face, but he wasn’t among them. Her hope rose. And her fear returned like an arrow in her chest. She reached for the blue knight’s dented helmet and hinged back the visor.

  The corpse’s eyes glared at her out of the cold, vacant distance of death with empty eyes—one blue, one grey: Treasure’s eyes. She stared in disbelief, in shock. Treasure’s eyes—exactly as she remembered from the dream. His axe never fell when her helmet came loose—could not fall. She understood, now, why. She also understood why Treasure had been so secretive about his part in the war while he was in Summerbrook—why he was never seen with the Queen’s army. Shock seeping through her core, she stared down at her own soldier’s garments, and understood the twisted truth of her dream. The tears welled. Her body shook. Strength ebbing, she collapsed and sobbed with grief and despair into the damp earth.

  She lost sense of time, wandering the battlefield. The looters skirted her when she came near, but she hardly noticed them. A black and tan dog guarding a body growled, so she veered around it, wondering at the magnitude of a dog’s loyalty. She stopped at the corpse of a grey horse, its chest split open, and knew she was looking at Nightwind. Treasure had stolen her horse the morning that he left Summerbrook. Of course, Nightwind wasn’t her horse at all, just the mount of a dead soldier she had buried in the hills above Summerbrook. She felt it should be raining, and dark, mirroring the scene on the crushed and trampled and blood-soaked meadow, but the blue sky seemed to be smiling on the carnage.

  She shed her chain mail because it was too heavy, too cumbersome, and she’d finished playing soldiers, but she was surprised that the back came apart in two halves. She remembered being hit across the back by the blue knight—by Treasure. The corslet saved her life. It saved her life so that she could kill her lover. She dropped the corslet and wandered on, sensing from the cool touch of the air that her back was exposed. The tunic is torn, she thought, but she went on aimlessly, weaving across the battlefield, heading towards the forest.

  Dark stains marred the Seers’ blue robes. The first Seer was lying on his side, curled as if he was asleep, except for his open-mouthed grimace. Three arrows jutted from his back and one from his side. His grey hair was long and straggly, and he reminded her of Samuel. Around his neck was a gold chain. A gold ring adorned the middle finger of his right hand. She crossed to the second corpse and found what appeared to be a younger man, face down, his long brown hair swirling across his shoulders, a solitary arrow buried through the hair into the base of his neck. She bent to touch the soft fabric of the dead man’s robe, and wondered at its almost liquid quality. This person had conjured magic, magic that had protected Treasure in his blue armour from a host of arrows. But magic had not saved him from a single arrow.

  ‘Hey! You! Get away from there!’

  She heard the warning, but she stayed, kneeling by the dead Seer. Suddenly there were men around her and someone grabbed her arms. A soldier stared at her, dark eyes glaring under a heavy set of equally dark eyebrows. ‘One of the Rebels’ whores,’ he said scornfully. ‘Take her away with the rest of them.’

  She sat at the edge of the large group of prisoners, silently staring at the earth, ignoring the murmured conversations. She felt the presence of guards, but she didn’t look up. She’d let the soldiers lead her from the battlefield, and when they tied her hands behind her back and pushed her to the ground she sank submissively. No one acknowledged her and she didn’t care. Only when she felt the need to piss did she decide to rise, but a heavy hand pushed her to the ground, and a harsh voice snarled, ‘Down, you Rebel bitch!’

  She looked up at the soldier who stood over her. ‘I need to piss.’

  ‘Piss in your pants,’ he replied.

  So she sat, holding her water, staring at the earth. When she couldn’t hold it any longer, she sighed resignedly and relaxed, the temporary warmth a pleasure against the cold ground. She didn’t care any longer. Treasure was dead. She’d killed him. It didn’t matter any more if she lived or died. Nothing mattered.

  Later, when the day was past midday and the sky shadowed by grey clouds, someone prodded her to her feet. She rose with the other prisoners, and moved forward. ‘Don’t do anything stupid!’ someone yelled. ‘You try to run, we’ll cut you down! Your lives are the property of Her Majesty now! Prince Future is already on his way to hang! You’ve nothing left to fight for!’ Meg lifted her head to learn that her bound cohort was being marched between the assembled ranks of the Queen’s army, the victorious soldiers watching the procession of defeated Rebels with grubby, battle-worn faces that shifted between faint curiosity and mild disinterest. She knew that she was in the wrong place, that all she had to do was tell someone she was not a Rebel, but she didn’t care. What did it matter? She trudged on, dropping her eyes to the heels of the man ahead of her, noting how his bare feet were dirty and his left calf bloodied.

  She was surprised when a guard grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, using his spear to force her to lift her chin. His expression was stern. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s her.’

  The guard lowered his spear and pulled her out of the line of prisoners, and started cutting her bonds.

  ‘How in Jarudha’s name did you end up among the prisoners?’ Blade stood before her with an inquisitive and bemused expression. He took her arm gently, saying, ‘Let’s get you something to wear and cleaned up.’

  She shifted uncomfortably under the men’s gazes, wishing that she’d stayed with the prisoners. The fresh blue tunic, grey vest and dark brown trousers Blade provided were all too big, but she was grateful to be out of her battle-torn clothes. She washed her face in a bucket of cold water inside Blade’s tent, to ease away the congealed blood on her left temple and scalp, and when she felt no pain, no discomfort at all, she wondered how severe her head wound really was if she had no feeling there. She would have liked to have checked and cleaned her back, because there was congealed blood on the torn tunic, but she couldn’t reach it. She hoped the fresh clothes wouldn’t be ruined. Because she had no pain in her back, she surmised the wound was superficial because of the chain mail’s protection.

  She would have happily remained in the tent, but Blade drew her out. ‘It doesn’t matter n
ow if anyone knows that you’re a woman. This battle finished the war. All that’s left is cleaning up pockets of resistance around the country, and most of the Rebels will capitulate now that Future is captured. Come and eat. There’ll be singing and celebration tonight. You don’t want to miss that.’

  The men were stunned to see that Red was a young and very attractive woman, even with her red hair shorn. ‘Yes, my gaping friends, you’re looking at a woman,’ Blade confirmed, grinning at their wonder. ‘And she stood with you on the battlefield today, so you will give her the respect due any brave soldier in the Queen’s army.’ Despite the smiles, and quiet laughter, and nods of agreement, the eyes were riveted on her. She felt more vulnerable after Blade tapped a soldier on the shoulder and left the gathering.

  ‘So why is a pretty thing like you pretending to be one of the boys?’ a soldier asked.

  ‘I was looking for someone,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Husband?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said a young man with a thin black beard and sad eyes.

  ‘We should be getting ready for the celebration,’ said another. He approached, and said, ‘My name’s Long Hillside.’

  ‘Meg,’ she replied. ‘Meg Farmer.’

  Long smiled and introduced the others. ‘Axe Woodcutter. River Bentknee. Bow Shaftmaker.’ Meg nodded to each, knowing she wouldn’t remember so many names. Some wore bandages, and they all had cuts and bruises from the battle. All of them would have been on the front line in the morning. They would have known Nails Carpenter whom she saw die in the first clash. She wondered how many others were dead from Blade’s Group. There were barely fifteen with her at that moment.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive us for staring,’ said Bow, and he looked around for support, ‘but we haven’t seen a—a young woman for—well, for a long time.’ He laughed nervously, and the others smiled, although Meg noticed that Long was shaking his head as if disgusted.

  ‘Neither have I,’ she replied.

  The men hesitated, saw her cheeky smile, and laughed.

  Gold and yellow fires flickered in every direction. The evening echoed to song and conversations, punctuated by cheering around drinking and assorted games. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t find him,’ Blade said, as he handed Meg the chipped mead jug.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly, and lifted the jug to her lips to savour the sweet nectar.

  ‘I’m still amazed that you came through everything uninjured,’ he remarked. ‘Your tunic was sliced across your back and soaked with blood. There was plenty of blood on your face and neck as well. But no serious injuries at all.’

  ‘Lucky,’ she replied, but she was also puzzled. Her injuries had miraculously healed since the morning conflict, as had all her injuries since she had begun her dismal adventure. Reasoning the matter with Blade, however, was untenable. Mead and exhaustion were taking their toll and her mind was fuzzy. Men were laughing. Drunk soldiers close by were mournfully singing lyrics she half-remembered from Archer’s Inn about a sword-toting lad who travelled the land in search of challenges to break a curse on his family. Firelight flickered. The mulled mead was soothing. The entire camp was alive with mirth and happiness.

  Earlier, after eating and drinking, the soldiers in Blade’s Group had begun a wrestling contest, each participant stripping to his trousers and grappling with an opponent to see who could be first forced to his knees or onto his back. Meg watched in fascination as the eight who volunteered simultaneously completed their first round to the delight of the cheering crowd. The winning four paired up and fought until two were standing. Blade intervened to announce, ‘The winner of the next bout will wrestle our youngest and newest recruit!’ and he pointed to Meg. The men cheered enthusiastically. Someone shouted, ‘Can’t wait to see that one strip to his trousers!’ and they all laughed louder, and she laughed with them. The final match was hard fought, until burly Bow Shaftmaker triumphed, to everyone’s delight, and the loser, a wiry and tough little nugget of a man, Handy Bowyer, was compensated with a large tankard of ale that someone thrust into his hand as he sat on the ground. Bow excused Meg from the final bout, saying, ‘It would be a mockery to all men if she beat me, and I’m not risking that after what she did today on the battlefield,’ and he was good-naturedly cheered and jeered for his show of chivalry.

  Meg did notice that no one mentioned the dead throughout the night. There were hesitations in conversations when absent men were almost mentioned, the listeners nodding knowingly as the speaker altered tack. When she politely asked Blade why the names of the dead were avoided, he explained, ‘It’s a soldiers’ superstition. We believe that the souls of men slain on the field of battle are scooped up by the Demon Horsemen and carried to the gates of Paradise. If any of their names are mentioned before they reach Paradise, their souls are lost and the Demon Horsemen return to collect one of us as a replacement.’

  An arm wrestling contest erupted, interrupting Blade’s explanation, and Meg let the matter drop as the men settled back into drinking and talking. ‘What about a song from the girl?’ someone called out. ‘She did a pretty good job pretending to be a minstrel boy.’

  ‘A song!’ chorused the crowd.

  Blade looked at Meg. ‘Well?’

  She blushed. ‘I don’t know too many.’

  ‘Sing for us, Meg,’ Long Hillside pleaded.

  She looked at the ring of faces shifting features in the flickering firelight, and sighed. Wombat was the cause of all this, she decided. She stood, coughed and began:

  ‘When I was but a maiden fair, I wandered carelessly

  Across the millstream near my home, the flowers there to see,

  For often did I stray from home drawn by my curiosity,

  And so I chanced upon a sight a maiden should never see.’

  It was a ballad she remembered her father singing to her one night. He was warning her to stay close to home as she grew older because of the dangers presented by young men whose intentions were driven by desires older than respect. She’d never realised how pronounced its message was until she was singing it in the midst of a circle of battle-weary soldiers. Some had wives and daughters waiting at their homes; some were single and desperate for the love of a woman.

  As she finished, she half-expected them to be scornful of a song performed to warn young women away from men, but they cheered and clapped and called for another, and her voice had drawn more men to the crowd; men rapt to hear a woman’s voice. Reluctantly, she obliged with two more ballads. The first, ‘The Lovers’ Lesson’, was a rousing tale of two young men who were constantly competing with each other over who was the better at whatever task they chose. It was one she had learned, along with the other girls in Summerbrook, because it was a lively tune and the story ended with both young men being outwitted by a clever girl for whose affections they were competing. The second was the only other one she could recall easily—the tragic tale of two lovers whose love was never fulfilled. As she sang, her tears rose against her will:

  ‘Close by her grave he stood alone, and sighs gave he full three,

  “For here like you I take me rest,” he whispered mournfully,

  And from its sheath he drew his knife, its good blade sharp and true,

  “Now in the earth I too will lie and never part from you.”’

  She broke down, sobbing as she finished. She apologised, and left the circle of silent men. Beyond the firelight, crying, she wiped the tears from her face, angry with herself. ‘Why?’ she asked the moon as it slid between dark banks of silver-edged cloud, avoiding her questions. ‘Why?’

  ‘Meg?’

  She turned and saw Blade. ‘I’m sorry about back there,’ she hastily apologised, and wiped her cheeks. ‘I didn’t mean to start crying.’

  ‘Everyone understands,’ he said quietly, and came closer. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I think so now,’ she said, but she was surprised when Blade’s hands rested on her should
ers.

  ‘You might still find him,’ he said.

  The simple statement of hope broke another wall in Meg’s resolve and she burst into tears again. Blade pulled her close and she sobbed against his chest, grateful for the comfort, the sense of security. Her secret, though, she would not and could not share.

  He led her quietly to his tent and inside his warmth made her soften in the darkness. He pressed tenderly against her and she let him pull aside her curtain of clothing. His hand, calloused by war, was rough against her thigh, but she wanted the touch, needed it, and sighed as his hand explored her. The darkness also hid her silent tears, tears for the love she had lost, tears for the lovers in the ballad. When his lips pressed against hers, she recoiled, uncertainty flooding through her, but he whispered soft assurance and she let herself sink into his soothing passion.

  The people stood above a thin river of fire, their faces lit by the molten glow. Their long, intricately braided hair seemed alight with the energy of the stream of fire, and their eyes were different, elongated. The faces were nothing like any face she’d ever seen—strangely beautiful. Their eyes were fixed on the fire, and their mouths moved in unison, chanting or singing. The oddity was that she couldn’t hear anything. Then a man, an older man by his features, lifted a sword blade from the fire, a golden fiery blade serrated along its edges, and he pressed a sliver of amber into it as if the vapid heat had no effect on his flesh.

  The sword blade flashed with light so intense that she had to turn away. When she turned back the scene had vanished and she was waking to the sound of rain on canvas, and an all-consuming wave of sorrow.