The Amber Legacy

by Tony Shillitoe

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Well, I’ve been hearing some fascinating stories about you, my little bird,’ Wombat proclaimed as he swaggered up to her, his bulk dwarfing the soldiers beside him. ‘Lining up on the front line. Fighting in the battle. Regular hero, eh. I take it you’re heading for home, then?’

  Meg hoisted her sack over her shoulder, bumping it against her rolled green blanket. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind the company, I’d be happy to escort you—at least back to Quick Crossing,’ he offered.

  Meg was horrified. ‘If you go back there, won’t they put you back in gaol?’

  Wombat laughed. ‘Probably. But then maybe they won’t either.’

  ‘Why go back? I thought you had other places to go.’

  ‘I have,’ the big man said, ‘but I like Quick Crossing.’

  ‘I can’t go through there. They’ll recognise me.’

  Wombat grinned and ruffled her cropped hair. ‘I doubt it, girlie. You don’t look like the beauty that rode in on a Queen’s horse. If you can fool the army for a bit you can fool the people of Quick Crossing for a passing through.’

  Thunder rumbled across the landscape. Meg looked up at the rain-laden clouds. ‘I was leaving straightaway.’

  ‘Got everything I need with me,’ he replied, and hefted a heavy sack as proof.

  ‘What about your wounds?’

  Wombat patted his side. ‘Not too bad. Bit sore. Might have to walk more slowly than we did getting here.’ He looked at the soldiers who were packing equipment and forming into their ordered ranks. ‘Where’s Leader Cutter?’

  ‘Gone,’ Meg said bluntly.

  ‘And your sword?’

  ‘I gave it back. I don’t need it any more, now that I’m a woman again,’ she replied, and winked, making Wombat laugh.

  ‘I heard this morning that the army is marching to the capital,’ he continued. ‘That’s why I came looking for you. Future and his cronies will be publicly executed there. It would be a show to see, eh?’

  ‘I’ve seen enough killing to last me forever,’ she told him. She turned and waved to the soldiers.

  ‘Safe trip!’ Long called.

  ‘Feel free to rejoin the army any time!’ yelled Bow, and the Group of soldiers laughed and waved to her.

  ‘Well, seems you’re a popular one, eh,’ Wombat scoffed.

  ‘I’m going,’ Meg replied, and she spun on her heel and headed north, leaving the dark green shadow of The Whispering Forest and her twisted dream in her wake.

  They travelled slowly for the first two days, hampered by rolling showers and Wombat’s need to rest regularly. ‘I didn’t expect I’d be such a slouch,’ he said, as he sank to the dry earth under the cover of a large gum in a coppice. His breathing was laboured, and Meg saw that he’d lost his normally ruddy colour.

  ‘We’d better camp here for the night,’ she suggested. ‘It’s almost sunset and the rain’s settling in. We should be at Quick Crossing by midday tomorrow.’

  ‘See how I go,’ he said, leaning back against the grey and white bark. ‘If we get a little more distance before nightfall, it would be good.’ He closed his eyes and laid his hands across his bulging stomach.

  Meg had wondered at the big man’s intentions when he offered to take her to the Queen’s army, but she had quickly learned to trust him. Now he was determined to see her return home safely and she felt she did not deserve his kindness. And she couldn’t tell him the tragic consequences of her dream. She still refused to accept its outcome for herself.

  Lightning flashed over the northern ranges. Moments later, thunder rolled across the land and the drifting rain quickened into a downpour. She stared at the fading light, her heart as cold and miserable as the weather, and cursed herself for trusting wild notions of the magic in dreams. Her Blessing, her dreaming, was twisted and cruel, and she didn’t want it. What did all the strange dreams portend if the killing of Treasure was the result of her most immediate dream? What bizarre world was waiting for her if the creatures and people populating her wilder dreams were real?

  A droplet of rain trickled down her neck and she shivered. She looked back at Wombat’s darkening figure and was pleased to discover that he was asleep. There was plenty of dry tinder and wood at the base of the big tree and its neighbours to build a small fire, so she set to the task before the light vanished. Rain drifted in a fine mist through the tree canopy, and the fire she eventually started sputtered and hissed when larger drops splashed onto the flames and coals. She let Wombat sleep while she ate jerky and dried fruit rations that the soldiers had given her for her journey. She retrieved an army blanket from Wombat’s sack and laid it over the snoring man. Satisfied that he seemed comfortable, she unrolled her blanket and curled up against the other side of the tree, and watched the flames gradually die to glowing embers.

  She woke to a babbling voice. It was dark and raining steadily, and the embers were dead. She unwrapped her blanket, wincing at the cold, and crept beside Wombat to listen, but his utterings were meaningless. ‘It isn’t what it seems—trust me—please—you know I know that—it’s too cold—can’t you feel it?—it’s like ice.’ She shuffled blindly, working to rekindle the campfire, until flames leapt into life and licked along the broken bough on the hearth. She used a short length of wood as a makeshift torch and held up the delicate flame to see Wombat’s head lolling from side to side and his face drowning in sweat. The flame guttered and died.

  In the dull firelight she saw his eyes open, and he stared as if he was peering at a terrible vision. He babbled wild, unintelligible words, and tried to rise, but he fell back against the tree trunk. She tried to calm him, but a massive arm swept her aside and she collapsed by the fire, nearly rolling into it. When she sat up, rubbing her side, the big man broke into a fit of violent yelling: ‘No! No! I won’t let you!’ punctuated with bursts of swearing. She watched in amazement, no longer sure of what she should do, until his energy subsided, and he fell into a silent sleep.

  She cautiously felt his raging brow, before noticing a dark stain spreading along the side of his tunic. She nudged him, but he was unconscious, so she gingerly eased his arm aside and unlaced his tunic until she could lift it to see the extent of his injury. Blood and pus oozed from a ragged wound that looked like it had been stitched but had split apart. She felt sick. She’d dealt with farm animals that had had seriously infected injuries, but she’d never seen such a hideous wound on a person. Even the horrendous battlefield wounds she’d seen were at least uninfected. She needed hot water and clean rags. She rifled through Wombat’s sack until she found a spare tunic, which she ripped into strips. She stoked the fire, then retrieved a billy from the sack and half-filled it with water. She suspended the billy above the flames until the water steamed and bubbled, before dropping rags into it. She fished one rag out of the boiling water, waved it in the air until it was cool enough to handle, and started to wipe the mess from Wombat’s wound. She expected the man to wake because what she was doing would sting, but he merely groaned in his sleep: a limited reaction that made her more afraid. She wished she had Emma’s powder or healing ointment.

  She used several rags to clean the wound, and when she studied it in the firelight she confirmed that the stitching had torn from the deep spear gash. Though it was barely four days since he’d received the injury, it had festered quickly. She patched the wound with cloth strips, and tied the remaining strips into a belt to hold the makeshift packing in place. She covered it, fetched her blanket, and sat beside Wombat to mop the sweat from his sagging jowls. ‘You can’t die,’ she told him. ‘I won’t let you do that.’ He coughed, and caught his breath, which reminded her of the sounds from the dying soldier above Summerbrook. ‘I won’t let you die!’ she said, caught between desperation and anger. ‘Hear me? You can’t die!’ She pressed against his side and enfolded his broad chest with her arms. ‘You will get better, Wombat. You must. It’s not your choice. I will make you better. I promi
se. Don’t think you can die on me. I won’t let you.’ She focussed on the image of his wounded side and imagined that she could see it healing. That is what will happen, she promised herself. You will heal because I will it. She shivered as she felt a tingling move down her spine. The sound of rain always did that to her too, and she liked the sensation. Wombat’s laboured breath rattled in his throat. ‘You will get better,’ she repeated. ‘You will get better.’

  She couldn’t remember falling asleep—only waking with a start to the chortling of kookaburras. Dull daylight half-lit the landscape. The rain had ceased and the earth smelled fresh. She pushed gently away from Wombat’s supine figure. His face was less pale, and his breath wasn’t as laboured. He was tough, and she was grateful. She got up and draped her blanket across Wombat’s legs, before she searched for more tinder and wood, and restarted the fire.

  Satisfied with the fire, she checked Wombat again. His feverish temperature had subsided, and he appeared comfortable. She wanted to check the festering wound, but he had eased onto his side further during the night, making access impossible without waking him. The wound would have to be bathed again, but she decided to let him sleep while she ate.

  Bread, army jam and yam root chewed and swallowed, washed down by a freshly brewed mug of billy tea, Meg knelt beside Wombat and gently shook his shoulder. The big man snorted, twitched, and opened his eyes, blinking against the light. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  He raised his hands to rub his eyes. ‘Like I’ve had a long, deep, relaxing sleep.’ He sat forward, no sign on his face of discomfort from the wound, and coughed to clear his throat. ‘I had a strange dream,’ he said. He looked at her, his brow furrowed in thought, and he nodded. ‘You were in the dream, little bird. You.’ He nodded again. ‘Strange. I don’t usually remember what I dream, but this one I do.’

  ‘What was it?’ She grabbed his arm when she saw that he was going to try to rise. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Can’t what?’ he asked indignantly, as he pulled his arm away. ‘I’m feeling good.’

  ‘You’re sick,’ she argued. ‘I’ve seen it.’

  Wombat turned to her, with a quizzical expression. ‘Seen what?’

  ‘Your spear injury. It’s infected.’

  He raised an eyebrow, looked down at his side and lifted his tunic. ‘I can’t see it. Did you do this bandage?’

  ‘It’s further around. Let me look.’ She waited for him to settle before she looked at the packing, where she was surprised to find no evidence of weeping. The skin outside the bandaging appeared normal. ‘I must have cleaned it better than I thought,’ she mumbled. ‘Do you mind if I clean it again?’

  ‘Well, if you must,’ Wombat answered begrudgingly. ‘It’s just a wound. The doctors fixed it up at the army camp, eh. Feels fine to me. It’s just a bit itchy. I want to scratch it.’

  ‘You don’t touch it,’ Meg warned. She started fossicking in her sack.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  She extricated a black tunic and grinned. ‘This. I need more rags and bandages.’ She started ripping the tunic into strips, to Wombat’s bemusement.

  ‘I wish I could see what all your fuss is about,’ he remarked. ‘Stupid place to have got speared in the first place, eh.’

  Meg emptied the tea from the billy and refilled it with water. ‘I’ll boil that in a moment. I’ll just have a look at the wound and let it breathe while I’m getting this ready,’ she explained as she sat cross-legged beside Wombat and started to untie the belt bandage. As she eased it aside, the wound packing fell to the ground. Where there had been a gaping, pus-infected wound last night was clean, pink unblemished skin.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Don’t understand what?’

  She sat back and stared at the big man’s broad features. ‘Your wound. It’s completely healed.’

  Wombat’s eyebrow rose again. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s completely healed. Like it was never there. There’s no mark. Nothing.’

  He twisted, trying to see for himself, unsuccessfully. ‘Bloody thing,’ he growled, and reached back to feel his skin. When he realised there was no wound, he scratched vigorously, exclaiming, ‘Well now, that I did need.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ she murmured, her bewilderment increasing. She touched her temple where she remembered being struck by Treasure’s axe. ‘I don’t have any marks or scars here, do I?’ she asked, leaning forward.

  ‘None at all,’ he confirmed. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s—’ She hesitated, unable to explain her confused thoughts. She unconsciously touched the hidden amber necklet beneath her tunic. There was one explanation, but—

  ‘What are you thinking, eh?’

  ‘Nothing. I can’t make sense of any of it. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘And you’re telling me that the spear wound is completely healed?’ he insisted.

  Forcing a smile, she said, ‘Completely. The surgeons did better work than anyone could hope for.’

  ‘Well,’ Wombat said, now scratching his lower back, ‘at least a man can enjoy this pleasure then.’

  Meg rose and gazed north. The northwest ranges were shrouded in cloud and grey rain. The morning sun hadn’t broken through the clouds in the east.

  ‘I’d best eat something and then we should get going, eh,’ Wombat announced, getting to his feet. He stretched his arms and back and groaned with satisfaction, saying, ‘Now, that has to be the best rest I’ve had in a long, long time.’

  Meg had no comment to offer, immersed in her thoughts of Emma, Samuel and the amber crystal.

  PART FIVE

  ‘If I’d known from the outset to where the journey

  was taking me, I wonder if I would have

  undertaken it. Journeys are, after all, for change.

  The place from which we leave is never the

  place to where we return—and sometimes we

  never return at all. And the people we are

  when we begin our journeys are never the

  people we are at our journeys’ ends.’

  FROM Reflective Visions, BY KING DYLAN OF ANDRAKIS IN THE REIGN OF THE NEW KINGDOM

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Luck fell her way twofold. Not only did she pass through Quick Crossing unnoticed, parting sorrowfully with Wombat who insisted he was looking forward to sorting out the problem with his old friend, Lockup Keeper the bailiff, but she also spotted Saltsack Carter’s wagon.

  ‘Well, I’ll be…!’ Saltsack declared, when he recognised the young woman beneath the messy cropped red hair, the dirty face and oversized men’s clothing. ‘Meg Farmer. You have no idea how worried your mother is! Where have you been?’

  For that question she hadn’t prepared an answer, although she knew she would be asked it when she returned home. ‘I—I thought I could track down—who’d stolen Nightwind,’ she improvised.

  ‘The army horse?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meg confirmed. ‘I wanted to get him back.’

  ‘But you’ve been gone a fortnight.’

  ‘I followed the thief down to—down south.’

  ‘So where’s the horse?’

  ‘I don’t know. I lost the tracks. That’s why I’m coming home.’

  ‘You’re crazy, Meg,’ said Saltsack, waggling his long dark locks. ‘You chased a horse thief on your own? What were you going to do when you caught up with him? Eh? Ask him to give the horse back? You’re lucky you didn’t. You’d be lying in a ditch somewhere with your throat slit. Horse thieves don’t mess around, girl. They hang horse thieves in most towns. Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again.’ He fixed her with a chastising gaze, before he smiled and invited her to climb aboard. Then he slapped the reins and the wagon creaked into motion.

  She was glad for the wagon ride and the company. Saltsack talked on and off, telling her that he’d heard the war was almost over because the Rebel
s had been defeated, and the Queen’s army was returning to Port of Joy. He recounted various stories of the army’s exploits that he’d heard in Fairday’s Tavern in Quick Crossing: how the army’s Warmaster had stood alone to face the enemy onslaught and unhorsed their magical hero before he died; how an unknown soldier had single-handedly brought down the evil Marchlord Overbrook, the scourge of the Queen’s forces. Meg listened silently, remembering fragments from the terrifying morning on the meadow outside The Whispering Forest and noting how the telling of the tale was already exaggerating events. ‘They say the rebels lost twenty thousand men to only three hundred of the Queen’s men,’ said Saltsack. ‘Twenty thousand to three hundred!’

  She knew many more than three hundred Queen’s soldiers had perished, but it seemed the battle was quickly becoming folklore, and she inwardly smiled at the possibility that it would become a ballad sung in taverns and around fires at night. ‘But what about Summerbrook?’ she asked. ‘Has anything happened?’

  Saltsack slowly told her the gossip that he knew, but little had changed in the village in her brief absence.

  They stopped overnight at the Black Kangaroo Tavern in Woodman’s Springs, where a stranger named Flora Cattle, a curt woman with thin lips and uninviting narrow eyes, was the new owner. Meg recalled the violent night she’d endured at the tavern and shuddered, but she kept that knowledge to herself, and slept soundly and dream-free in a fresh and comfortable bed at Saltsack’s generous expense.

  They pulled into Summerbrook late the following afternoon, chased by a saturating shower of rain. When they stopped outside Archer’s Inn, the Archers didn’t recognise the bedraggled passenger on Saltsack Carter’s wagon until he identified her as she dismounted. Word spread quickly and people came out of their houses to greet her. She kept to her story of pursuing a horse thief, and politely refused a kind invitation to eat in the inn, telling the gathering that she had to see her mother first. Saltsack offered a ride to the farmhouse, but Meg insisted on walking the short distance. Leaf and Brown Archer walked with her, asking her questions about what the world was like beyond Summerbrook, why she’d cut her hair, was she scared being so far from home. The girl and boy left her at the junction and she walked on, filled with trepidation.