She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) Page 5

  ‘That’s enough, Samuel!’ Anthem screamed into his ear, digging his fingers into the earth to hold on, but Samuel still could not control his spell.

  He could feel the power of the ring burning its way inside him, creeping its way down his arm and towards his core. Only the hardened discipline of all his years in the School of Magic enabled him to focus his mind and he began separating himself from the Argum Stone piece by piece, closing off its power as well as he could. He had nearly met with success, when a nearby surge of magic caught his attention. A Great Spell had formed somewhere close by, for it was the only kind of magic powerful enough to distract him at this point. He felt it coalesce and gather unto the point of realisation and then, in a single gulp, it was gone.

  Despite the distraction, he had no time to ponder the cause and Samuel fought back against the oppressive power of the Argum Stone. As quickly as it had come upon him, the onslaught of magic ended and he pulled the ring from his scalded finger and threw it back into his pocket before anyone could gain their wits.

  With the spell ended, the wind died away almost at once. As Samuel shook himself off and stood, he saw that the smoke and dust and haze of the battleground had cleared; blown away with the wind. Grand Masters Anthem and Tudor were still beside him. Goodfellow was lying dazed some scant yards away, but Eric Pot was nowhere to be seen.

  The silence was eerie, for perhaps half a million men all around—a sea of humans as far as the eye could perceive—had dropped to their stomachs for cover. Slowly, they raised their heads as they realised the hell-storm had passed and those that scrambled to their feet and readied their weapons the quickest had the first chance to strike those beside them. The quiet rose back to a roar and in the space of three heartbeats the battle had returned to full intensity. By now, there was barely half of the Turian colours left, huddled together in a bunch around the magicians and along the rise. Somehow, despite the Turian losses and the fact they faced overwhelming numbers, the battle continued in all directions.

  The gore-covered form of General Canard appeared nearby, emerging from a mound of shields and bodies, and he staggered towards them. His armour was gone, somehow stripped away, and he had been fighting bare-chested and wounded, true to stubborn Turian form.

  ‘Come to me, Turians!’ he rallied and dozens of his men hurried to defend him.

  ‘Curious,’ Anthem stated, ignoring the general’s call altogether. ‘The Garten forces from the north and the south have reached each other and seem to be battling one another.’

  ‘What can it mean?’ said Tudor, stepping up beside him to see, still holding onto Grand Master Jurien’s staff.

  Anthem shook his head and scratched at his wispy old beard. ‘I have no idea, but it still does not help us. We are still stuck in the middle of this mess. He then turned back to Tudor. ‘Take these two—up into the hills. I will give you as much time as I can.’

  ‘What about Eric?’ Goodfellow asked with alarm, looking around them. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘If I find him, I will take care of him,’ Anthem replied, ‘but, for now, we can only hope he is still alive. You have your own skins to save.’

  ‘Follow me as closely as you can,’ Grand Master Tudor told the two of them, and he cast the walking staff of Grand Master Jurien back to the earth beside the body of his friend. ‘Hurry!’ And with that he was away, speeding on remarkably spry legs and Samuel and Goodfellow followed.

  They had almost made it fair across the battlefield, with old Tudor blasting a path before him, when something made Samuel stop and turn around. Anthem had set himself into a casting stance and had thrown his arms apart, unleashing a flood of magic into the air before him that tore the pattern to shreds. An otherworldly scene was visible for the briefest of moments, a vision of hellfire and horror, until another spell from the old man sealed the rift shut once more and the air was returned to its normal state. Such a spell was truly a wonder to behold.

  ‘A mighty spell,’ Tudor mentioned, waiting at Samuel’s side, ‘but not at all delicate. He is in too much of a hurry. I hope he can control whatever he has brought.’

  Samuel was about to query the comment when the meaning became clear. In the few, brief moments that Anthem had bridged worlds, he had brought something through and it was now beginning to materialise. The air shimmered and a hideous behemoth of demonic proportions came into being, covered in billowing fire, crushing a hundred men beneath it as it appeared. The creature roared out with wrath as it beheld its surroundings, and it reached out with its enormous muscled arms and began plucking up the men in its path. The multitude of Gartens around it dropped their weapons and crushed against each other in their frantic efforts to be away. A brave few went at it with their swords, but they were the next to disappear into its gnashing maw.

  ‘How can he hope to control it?’ Goodfellow asked, hurrying along at the sight of the thing.

  ‘He won’t,’ the old man replied. ‘He had no time for that. I think he only plans to cause as much havoc as possible and, if any of us happens to live, we can deal with the creature then. In any event, such summons only lasts while the spell that brought it prevails. The creature will return to its world in due course, as nature requires. Anything that is brought between worlds cannot remain long.’

  Samuel had time to see the beast throw forty men to their deaths with one sweep of its hand, before the hillside trees obscured his view. Grand Master Tudor did not slow or pause a step and was dragging them up and into the light cover at once.

  ‘Quickly!’ he hissed at them and they continued on their way.

  They were given no time to rest, even when they made the edge of the valley, as the old magician was already starting up the rugged incline, scampering over rocks and logs, up the slippery shale, darting about like a mountain goat. The roar and clatter of the battlefield still sounded strong behind them as they climbed the hill, broken by the occasional bellow from Anthem’s summoned monstrosity.

  ‘Do you think Eric is still alive?’ Goodfellow asked, struggling up the rise.

  ‘I hope so,’ Samuel muttered back darkly, ‘so I can wring his neck when we catch up with him.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He left us. Didn’t you notice? While everyone else was struggling to hold on during that wind I summoned up, he used his Journey spell to sneak off.’

  ‘I thought we would have felt such a spell. The Grand Masters didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I definitely felt something, although in all the excitement I’m not sure exactly what, but it felt suspiciously like Eric used his Great Spell to leave us behind.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t just do that, would he?’

  ‘I would have hoped not, but I guess that remains to be seen,’ Samuel replied.

  ‘Quiet, you fools!’ Tudor hissed back at them. ‘Keep up!’ he ordered, as he darted further up the steep rise.

  The going was slow, even for them, as they struggled to keep their footing on the treacherous stones. Samuel scambled, making sure not to let his feet slip into the cracks, and the jagged rocks clattered and wobbled as he clambered across them.

  He took a moment to catch his breath, but a shout of surprise from Grand Master Tudor had him looking up in a panic. There was a flash of magic and a body fell at the old man’s feet.

  ‘Defend yourselves!’ Tudor cried as other men, all cloaked in grey hoods, came springing out from their hiding places amongst the trees and rocks.

  A spell from Goodfellow had several of them dead and Grand Master Tudor had taken care of the rest before Samuel had even managed to steer his hand into his pocket.

  ‘For goodness sake!’ old Tudor said, on observing him still standing as if rooted to the spot. ‘Open your eyes, Samuel, or you’ll be the death of me!’

  ‘Who are they?’ Goodfellow asked.

  ‘Assassins!’ the wizened magician spat with disdain. He kicked the body at his feet, before ducking down to pull the cloth from the dead man’s face. Revea
led beneath was a dark-skinned face, tattooed on the cheeks and pierced in the nose and ears. The old man bit his lip with worry at the sight. ‘We need to get over there,’ Tudor told them, nodding towards an outcrop that was bereft of trees. ‘I want to see what’s going on below.’

  Several minutes of rocky scrambling led to them climbing out onto the jutting ledge, before they finally reached the tip of the overhanging stone. The valley lay spread out below them, with Rampeny smouldering far to the south and the valley mouth gaping far to the north.

  ‘That’s our answer,’ Tudor stated, pointing towards the north. ‘Someone else has joined this war. No wonder the Gartens were in such a panic.’

  The valley floor was still seething like an ants’ nest, although now there were large patches here and there that were dark and still, clotted with hordes of the fallen. The middle of the valley was filled with Gartens, but their numbers had also fallen considerably to a fraction of their initial size. To the north of them, driving them south along the valley, was a third army. Their colours were mixed—browns and whites and browns and greys—and they moved lightly, as if unarmoured, which was strange for any force on the modern battlefield. At the far south, pushing north from Rampeny were the supposed Gartens that had taken the town, yet it seemed they were not Gartens at all, for they fought side by side with the newcomers and attacked Garten and Turian alike. In the middle, the Turians and the Gartens were being whittled away, set against each other and drowning amongst the superior numbers of this newcomer that had plugged both ends of the valley.

  There was no sign of Anthem’s summoned beast, but his magic was still coursing across the valley in rippling arcs. Several long shapes darted, running rampant amongst the men, and Samuel guessed it was more of the strange giant creatures, although he could see nothing of them clearly from this distance.

  ‘Who are they?’ Goodfellow asked, but old Tudor just shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know, but I can guess. These assassins have the look of the desert people of the great waste...but it makes no sense. They are waterless nomads. I don’t know how they could have assembled such a huge force and directed this battle with such accuracy. They waited for us to meet the Gartens and then they struck from both sides to force us together. Somehow, they overcame General Warren’s men and dressed enough of their own in Turian armour to creep close enough to block us in. A perfect and deadly execution of a cunning and expert plan.’

  ‘I have never heard of them. Perhaps these desert people are not the barbarians you expect?’ Samuel said.

  ‘Perhaps, but I have been to those lands myself and these are not the same people that I saw. Someone has been training them in the art of war, and to arrange all this so flawlessly, they must have been planning and watching us for some time. They knew everything about us; where we would be and how we would act. They came ready to assassinate each of us Lions and they have very nearly been successful. Our new enemy is sly and brutal.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ Goodfellow asked. ‘They are still fighting down there...but there looks to be little chance.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Tudor stated. ‘Janus charged me with getting you two back to Cintar and that’s just what I’ll do. As he said, we Lions are done, but you two are the new strength of the Order—young Lions, if you will. I know you are not even true Turians, but Anthem taught us to temper our pride long ago. It seems a simple lesson, but time and time again I must remind myself not to be such a stubborn old mule. Now, we must reach Cintar and warn the Empire of what has transpired.’

  ‘Why would the desert people do this?’ Goodfellow asked. ‘If they have never been involved in Empire affairs, why would they attack now?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. The Empire is in turmoil and both the Gartens and us have been worn down in these last few years. Yes, if I were planning to do something like this, now would be the time to strike.’ Then he turned from the scene below and adjusted his cruddy, black robes. ‘Come. We have far to go and the odds are, there are more ambushes set in these hills. They will want to catch each and every escapee of the battle, so no word of their presence reaches Cintar. They will want to maintain their secrecy for as long as they can.’

  Samuel judged that the old magician had used a considerable portion of his magic to climb the hill and his power was beginning to wane. A few more minutes’ rest would see the old man recover well. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect—’ Samuel began.

  ‘Then don’t give any,’ Tudor said, cutting him off. ‘Let’s go. I will cover our movements as best I can.’

  With that, a spell bloomed out from the man like an explosion of streamers and glimmering dust, before it settled discreetly into place, forming a wall of shadows around them. Samuel recognised its nature immediately, for it was Grand Master Tudor’s speciality—Concealment. The arrangement of the weaves went straight into Samuel’s uncanny memory and, yet again, he found himself in awe at the beauty of such a masterfully constructed work of magic. The Lions may have had their day, but there was no doubt they had left their mark upon the world.

  It took them four days to find their way free from the jagged hills around Rampeny. True, as had been said, the hills were inhospitable, covered in vertical drops and abrupt cliff-faces. Shards of smooth rock jutted out from the ground all over, in places towering above them and forming labyrinthine passages.

  They spied dozens of small bands of the dark-skinned desert-men who had entrenched themselves along the narrow mountain paths, just as Grand Master Tudor has foreseen, but luckily, the three of them managed to avoid direct conflict with all but one of these groups. Grand Master Tudor’s concealment spells had kept them virtually invisible to eye and ear every step of the way.

  ‘We need to reach the coast and signal an Imperial vessel,’ Tudor told them, as they afforded themselves the luxury of a cooked meal—a number of fist-sized quail caught and cooked by magical means. ‘I can’t guess how far west these desert-men have penetrated, but our chances are better on the sea. They can train their armies as much as they like, but unless they managed to keep an ocean hidden in the desert as well, we will still have the advantage in the water.’

  Samuel and Goodfellow both agreed—although it would have done them little good to object—and, while the old man set himself to sleep on a bed of dry leaves, they sat staring at the stars and the moon that peeped down at them between the branches.

  ‘I really hope Eric made it,’ Goodfellow said, finally breaking the silence. The starlight glinted on his spectacles—a reminder that although magic could accomplish wonders, it still could not solve something as common as near-sightedness.

  ‘Me, too,’ Samuel responded, ‘but if it turns out he fled and left us to fend for ourselves, I’ll be giving him a piece of my mind. There he goes, refusing to teach us his Journey spell and, when we need his help, he rabbits off and leaves us.’

  ‘I doubt it was intentional. Although, I still wouldn’t blame him if it were. I’m sure we both would have done the same if we could.’

  ‘Not if I had to leave anyone behind.’

  ‘Well, I guess it depends on the situation,’ Goodfellow noted, but Samuel only eyed his sandy-haired friend darkly. After a few moments, broken only by the night-time noises of the woods, Goodfellow spoke again, but he chose to change the subject altogether. ‘Times have certainly changed. I had no idea Grand Master Anthem could summon such beasts. I wonder where such fiends can come from.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Samuel said, rhetorically.

  ‘Do you remember when we fought the summoned creature in Hammenton?’

  ‘How could I forget such a thing, Eric? It was the most terrifying time in my life. Things like that tend not to be easily forgotten.’

  ‘When the Ti’luk creature first came up out of the well, we tried our magic against it—unsuccessfully. I keep thinking back to the spell you tried against it at the time. You told me you had amplified the spell by folding your power in upon itself.’


  ‘It seemed logical at the time, although I’ve had little chance to pursue it further. That was a long time ago.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it quite a lot,’ Goodfellow admitted. ‘What do you think if you kept pushing such a spell, pushing it tighter and tighter, with more and more magic? What would eventually happen?’

  ‘It would be very difficult to get past the point I reached on that day,’ Samuel explained. ‘The physical ability to manage such a spell is not easy. A lot of power is gained, but a lot is also wasted. I think the benefits would be lost in the effort.’

  ‘That could be overcome quite easily. The efficiency could be increased; the wayward power turned in upon itself. It could lead to spells of great proportion, perhaps something beyond what has ever been accomplished before.’

  ‘Are you suggesting some new kind of Great Spell?’ Samuel asked, looking to his friend with interest.

  ‘It’s possible, but I don’t think it would be a spell that could be cast in any useful way. It would be too chaotic—too difficult to knit into any kind of purpose.’

  ‘Then what would be the good of it? It would be energy, but undirected. It would take too much time to then unravel and be used as something useful—’

  ‘It would be powerful,’ Goodfellow interrupted, growing more excited. ‘Power upon power, ever inwards. If you could get enough energy down to a small enough point, I feel the pattern would not be able to hold it. The ether is vulnerable to magic in great concentrations, as with Summoning spells. At some point, I’m sure the spell would be forced to change its nature.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Goodfellow admitted.

  ‘I think it more likely that such a point could never be reached, or it would just become something too dangerous to complete. This sounds like one of the discussions for old men on cold nights in the School of Magic, Eric.’