The Amber Legacy

by Tony Shillitoe

  ‘Lady Amber, it’s prudent for you to follow us to a safer position,’ Strongarm recommended.

  ‘Where’s the highest point?’ she asked.

  ‘Pardon?’ Strongarm queried.

  ‘A building? I want to see the battle.’

  ‘There’s a tower in the temple grounds,’ he replied. ‘But it’s on the riverbank.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘But it’s too close to the fighting,’ he argued.

  ‘Better,’ she said. ‘Take me there now.’

  Strongarm’s expression showed he was caught between decisions. Finally he said, ‘This way,’ and led Meg and his Guards along the street.

  Surrounded by a low wall, imitating the walled seclusion of the Jarudhan temple in Port of Joy, the temple was a small stone and thatch building, a round hall with half-a-dozen wooden room extensions. A circular stone tower beside the temple rose four storeys. As Meg’s entourage approached the tower, a yellow-robed Jarudhan acolyte emerged from the temple to intercept them. ‘This is holy ground!’ he declared, waving his arms as if to ward them away. ‘No soldiers! No war!’

  ‘I need the tower,’ Meg told him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he challenged.

  ‘“Asking a guest his business when he is already in your house is the mark of the ill-prepared host,”’ she replied. Shocked to hear her recite scripture, the acolyte watched as Meg tried the tower door handle. ‘Where’s the key?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not permitted,’ the acolyte blurted.

  ‘“Open the doors to all my people who are in need,”’ she quoted. ‘Open it.’

  The acolyte stared at the red-haired woman dressed in men’s black tunic and trousers. ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘You are the abomination.’

  ‘Break the door open!’ she ordered.

  ‘This is holy ground,’ Strongarm reminded her.

  Meg rounded on him, glaring. ‘Break the door open!’ Strongarm issued orders to six Elite Guards who commenced battering the door with their shoulders and heavy boots.

  ‘Stop!’ the acolyte screamed. He lunged at the men, but two Elite Guards pinned him to the ground, and when the door cracked open, Meg strode in and climbed the winding wooden stairs, pursued by Strongarm and five Elite Guards.

  She emerged through a trapdoor onto a parapet from where she could see over the town. The river was directly behind and the two bridges spanning the river were clogged with Royal soldiers pushing towards the front line. Three blocks south the entire quarter was burning. A wall of black smoke rose from the flames that were consuming the houses and the thick smoke masked the enemy lines. Balls of fire erupted irregularly, setting more buildings ablaze. Along the visible narrow streets and lanes, soldiers were desperately fighting Beranix’s troops who were only distinguishable from the Queen’s men by the direction from which they came and occasional strips of green signifying Beranix’s heraldry. The enemy were pushing inexorably north as the town’s defences collapsed.

  She glanced at the clouds. The weather would at best permit her to conjure light rain. She shivered at the memory of the flooding and mass killing that she’d brought upon Beranix’s army at Kangaroo Ridge. That, she would never do again. But how could she help the defenders below? How could she drive Beranix’s army back without killing anyone?

  ‘Lady Amber?’ Leader Strongarm interrupted her thoughts by pointing south-east. Through the smoke haze, a small group of people were gathered at a grove of gum trees. In front of the group, a single figure was swinging a staff in sweeping circles, and out of the circles rose a thick, grey mist which spread down the hillside, covering a large force of Beranix’s men. ‘The shaman is concealing them,’ Strongarm explained. ‘If it works, they’ll outflank our defenders and trap them before they can cross the bridge to safety.’ He gestured to an Elite Guard. ‘Warn Warmaster Waters. Tell him what you’ve seen.’ The guard pushed past his companions, and as he descended Meg saw the mist pour into the alleys and streets, the faint shadows of men moving within it. The bewildered Queen’s soldiers retreated from the strange, encroaching mist.

  Remembering the night when Blade Cutter faced the horse illusion, Meg said, ‘I can do something.’ She closed her eyes and began an incantation.

  The mist flowed like a slow flood through the streets, and fireballs exploded among the retreating Queen’s soldiers, spreading the panic. Word of the surprise magical attack reached the southernmost defenders, whose ranks began to fragment. ‘It’s too late!’ Strongarm yelled. ‘We have to get across the river before our escape is cut off! Lady Amber! You have to come!’

  Meg ignored his plea. With a fierce arcane utterance, she opened her eyes. A strong northerly breeze whipped her hair as it roared across the river to tear the grey mist apart, exposing Beranix’s troops. Leading the enemy were two shaman who were casting fireballs. Curiously, immediately behind them, Meg saw two boys who, as the shaman waved their arms, threw what looked like small jars. The jars exploded in fireballs as they hit a building.

  Strongarm stared at the scene in awe as he assessed the effect of Meg’s spell on the battle. ‘Too late,’ he reiterated. ‘Beranix’s men have got too far, and too many of our people are on the run. You tried. Now we have to get out of here.’ Reluctantly, she followed the Elite Guards down the stairs and into the temple courtyard, still wondering what the boys had thrown to create such impressive explosions.

  The Guards led her along the riverbank, towards the bridge, the noise of the retreat and battle and explosions closer with every step. Enemy soldiers burst from an alley. ‘Protect Lady Amber!’ Strongarm yelled, and the Elite Guards formed a cordon around Meg. Trapped behind the Guards, she was surprised at how quickly Strongarm’s men cut through the enemy, and a moment later Strongarm was urgently ushering her on. Another twist and turn along the bank, and the bridge appeared, where a fierce and bloody battle was in progress as the Queen’s men fought to hold back Beranix’s soldiers. Strongarm halted. A fireball erupted in the midst of the Queen’s soldiers’ ranks, followed by a second. Beranix’s force swept onto the bridge, cutting off escape. Strongarm swore. Turning to Meg, he said, ‘We have to go back. Can you swim?’

  ‘Yes,’ she told him.

  ‘Good.’ He herded her back along the bank to a stone building. He ordered his men to force open a door and he pushed Meg inside. He gave a sharp command to ten members of his Group, and he led the others away.

  As the ten Elite Guards shuffled into the room, Meg asked, ‘What’s going on?’

  A guard replied as he closed the door: ‘Leader Strongarm’s going to make sure none of the barbarians come near here. When it gets dark, we’re meant to get you across the river safely.’

  ‘Is it wise to hide in here? Couldn’t we swim across now?’ she asked.

  ‘We’d never make it. The barbarians would just shoot us in the water,’ he told her. He turned his attention to the other men, issued orders, and they fanned out through the building.

  Meg could hear the faint sounds of the running battle through the streets. The building had only four rooms—two bedrooms, a parlour and a kitchen. It was as if the occupants had just left because the furniture was neatly in place, and the crockery and cooking utensils were positioned as if awaiting someone to go on with the daily chores. The Elite Guards, black armour blending into the shadowy rooms, took stations at the shuttered windows and bolted doors, and waited.

  The fighting outside diminished. Meg crept to the front door where she could hear flames crackling. Then she smelt smoke. At her feet, fingers of smoke curled under the doorsill. She stepped back in alarm. ‘Leather!’ the Guard beside her sharply whispered. Leather, who Strongarm had left in charge, appeared and stared at the smoke. At the same moment, an explosion on the wooden shingles sent shards of burning wood tumbling into the room. Something heavy thumped against the front door. ‘To arms!’ Leather yelled. The front door crashed open and Beranix’s men leapt through.

  Meg’s instinct was to run. Sh
e pushed through the Guards rushing to the attack, but as she reached the back door it shattered into splinters and more soldiers appeared. She dodged the grasping hands of two men, and hit a third across the face with her left arm, before retreating. Smoke swirled through the rooms. More burning shingles crashed to the floor. The situation was hopeless, but she sensed the Elite Guards did not intend to surrender, even against overwhelming odds. Too much was happening too quickly to think of a useful spell. Instead, she decided her only hope was to break out of the house. Pushing past an Elite Guard who was desperately fending off two attackers, into the one bedroom not filled with fighting soldiers, she flung open the shutters and wriggled out the window. As she straightened, she heard a voice and turned to discover the path to the river was blocked by three of Beranix’s soldiers. Back over her shoulder, she saw five more soldiers in green, and a man in a long cloak made from a variety of animal hides. Dark-bearded with an unkempt mass of grey hair, he held a twisted staff fashioned from a mallee limb in his left hand. She reacted by conjuring a fireball, which exploded in the faces of the three men between her and the river. The soldiers collapsed, screaming in agony, and she sprinted past, but as she reached the riverbank she had the sudden sensation of being punched solidly between the shoulderblades, and she sprawled into the reeds and muddy water. Coughing and spluttering, she lurched to her feet, turning in time to glimpse the shaman swinging his staff before it crunched against her skull.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Her hands were tied and she was gagged. She was bound on a pole. A bonfire raged in the centre of a circle of men whose dirty, bloodied and sweat-stained faces were leering at her. Her head throbbed, but the pain was steadily receding. She was aware of other men, bound and nakedly displayed as she was, but even turning her head as far as she could she couldn’t recognise who hung beside her.

  The flickering firelight and shadows played across the shaman who gesticulated as he spoke vigorously to the large crowd. Although his speech was similar to her Shessian tongue, she couldn’t understand him, but each time he punched his right fist into the air the crowd cheered. He pointed at a prisoner. Three soldiers strode across the circle, cut the prisoner from his pole, dragged him into the centre, and dropped him beside the shaman. The shaman spoke again before viciously driving his staff into the prisoner’s side, causing the prisoner to yelp and writhe in a vain attempt to free his hands from the binding cords. The shaman barked an order and the three soldiers forced the prisoner to stand, facing him, as he began to circle his naked and bloodied captive. Chanting rhythmically, he reached inside his animal pelt patchwork cloak and threw a handful of sparkling dust over the prisoner. Then he circled again, bending to pick up a firebrand.

  He left the centre to stroll along the line of polebound prisoners, past Meg, waving his firebrand in their faces as he snarled at them, as if he was exhorting the prisoners to respond. She translated what she could, but all she could make sense of were the words and phrases ‘chance’, ‘save death’, ‘speak’, and the rest was indecipherable.

  Raging with spite, the shaman spat on the last prisoner. He wheeled on his heel and strode to the prisoner in the centre, and with deliberate cruelty drove the end of the firebrand into the middle of the man’s chest. The victim screamed and staggered back. In the same instant, his entire body erupted in fierce white flames. He hopped and gyrated, screaming, to the rapturous delight of the cheering audience, overbalanced, and jerked and kicked wildly on the ground as the fire ate his flesh. The shaman threw another handful of dust on the burning prisoner, which exploded in a rainbow of colour as the flames ignited. Mercifully, the victim stopped moving, as the flames flared with greater intensity and died as the incinerated body disintegrated into a pile of white ash. The crowd applauded and cheered, and the shaman bowed low.

  When he was satisfied with the shower of appreciation, he pointed to another prisoner and the guards fetched the man. This time the shaman touched the prisoner on the neck with the end of his staff. The man winced, while the shaman simply stepped back and began a conjuration. Meg recognised the victim—the Elite Guard Leather. The crowd noise diminished to random voices and then silence. All eyes were riveted to the scene playing out in the centre of the circle. Initially, nothing appeared to happen. The shaman muttered his incantation and made delicate stroking patterns in the air in the direction of the prisoner, while Leather stared back defiantly. Then Leather started to sway. He struggled to keep his balance with his ankles hobbled, and he gasped for air. His face reddened and he sank to his knees, crying out, ‘Help me, Jarudha!’ and toppled sideways, frothing from the mouth. The shaman’s hands seemed to orchestrate Leather’s throes of agony until Leather lay still—at which point the shaman raised his hands to the awed audience. Spontaneous cheering erupted and the shaman smiled as he acknowledged the crowd’s enthusiastic adulation. He pointed to another prisoner.

  As the guards moved forward, the crowd parted and a man in variegated green garments, a gold-handled sword strapped to his waist, with an entourage of ten soldiers, stepped into the circle, and the crowd noise evaporated as everyone respectfully lowered their heads. The new centre of attention spoke briefly, glancing down at the body and the pile of ash, and at the remaining prisoners as he finished his address. He approached the prisoners and walked along the line, and stopped when he reached Meg. She met his darkeyed stare resolutely, ignoring his cursory study of her body when he broke eye contact. ‘I did not know the Queen was so short of men that she had to recruit women,’ he observed in perfect Shessian, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. His face was flattened and heavily scarred, and beardless, and his narrow eyes glittered with energetic determination. He reached forward and slipped her gag from her mouth. ‘I heard a rumour there was a woman Seer in the Queen’s army. Is that you?’ Meg silently gritted her teeth, while her antagonist inspected her. ‘Very pretty. What a waste.’ He shook his head, glanced at the corpse on the ground by the fire, and looked back at her. ‘You don’t have to die. I can order your release and take you with me. But you have to tell me what I need to know.’ He paused, as if expecting an answer. She stayed silent. He moved closer, and traced the line between her breasts and down her stomach with his finger. ‘I can make a beauty like you think of nothing but me.’

  ‘Take your hand off me!’ she snarled.

  He raised an eyebrow, and smiled. ‘One night with me, and you would beg otherwise.’ Her mind raced through her inventory of spells—so many she’d skimmed over when she’d read the texts without soaking them in. After the handful she’d learned from Emma, and in her early readings, she’d concentrated on powerful spells—spells that she wished she hadn’t learned because of their destructive nature. Now, they were her best recourse. But how? ‘I’ve given you a choice, woman. What is your answer?’ Meg spat on him. He wiped her spittle from his green coat, and grinned. Then he hit her sharply with the back of his hand, and strode away.

  Her cheek stung and her jaw already throbbed, and her eyes were watering. When she lifted her head, tears streaking her dirty face, the shaman had resumed his performance with the crowd’s encouragement, and another man was being dragged before him. The shaman struck him with his staff and the captive collapsed onto his back. The shaman kicked him in the ribs, rolling him over, and ordered his assistants to lift the prisoner back onto his feet. As they hauled him up, facing Meg, cold recognition shivered through her spine. Westridge. The enemy soldiers spun him to face the shaman, who circled him, chanting and sprinkling powder as he had on the first victim he’d incinerated.

  Anger and fear exploded in her. She whispered an unmaking spell. The shaman was parading around the circle, brandishing a firebrand, exhorting the crowd into a frenzy, stopping occasionally as if intending to apply the fire to his captive but then turning away, teasing his audience. Her wrist and ankle bonds loosened and dropped away. What now? What can I conjure to save Westridge? As she hesitated, the shaman wheeled and thrust his burning brand into
Westridge’s back. Flames exploded. ‘No!’ Meg screamed. She charged the shaman, but his guards grabbed her, wrestling to hold her back as the bright flames engulfing Westridge highlighted her anguished face. Desperately, she yelled a string of Targan words and she, too, burst into flame. The horrified soldiers scrambled away from the human inferno, brushing their garments and thankfully discovering that her flames hadn’t burned them. She yelled another phrase, and as the flames over Westridge vanished so did the illusory conflagration enveloping her.

  The shaman, as shocked as his audience by the unexpected turn of events, still held the firebrand in his right hand. He slipped his left hand inside his fur cloak. ‘Let them go!’ Meg demanded, indicating the other prisoners. She saw the shaman’s hand come out of his cloak, the powder leaking from his clenched fist, and said, ‘No. Drop it now.’ He moved towards her. ‘I said no!’ she warned. He took another step, and the crowd leaned forward, anticipating his magical show. Pointing her finger, an arrow of fire flashed across the space and exploded through the shaman’s chest, throwing him backwards. His firebrand spun into the crowd and the powder sprayed harmlessly across the ground. ‘Go away!’ she screamed at the onlookers. ‘Leave us alone!’ She waved her arms, as if fending off flies, and her wild action made the crowd retreat. Sighing, she knelt beside Westridge’s charred remains, and could no longer hold back her tears. Overwhelmed by sorrow, she even forgot the crowd—until a voice broke her agony.

  ‘So you are a Seer.’ She looked up to see the green clothes and scarred face of the man who’d hit her. He looked at the shaman’s body. ‘And a dangerous adversary.’

  ‘Take your army and go home,’ she snarled.