She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) Read online

‘There are very few of those old men remaining,’ Goodfellow observed.

  ‘All the more reason for us to hurry back to Cintar.’

  With a nod, Goodfellow conceded and laid himself to sleep while Samuel kept watch upon the night. Looking up, he noticed a faint trail just visible amongst the light of the constellations. It was a distant comet, barely discernible amongst the stars. He hoped it would bring them more luck than they had been having of late.

  The wind was blowing straight in from the wild and broken sea as Samuel, Goodfellow and Grand Master Tudor came stumbling across the grey, seaweed-strewn beach. Much to their relief, a small fishing boat was lying up on the sand, trailing a shallow groove down to the water where it had been dragged up only recently. There was no sign of the owner, or a house or home from where it could have come, so they shoved the boat back to the water’s edge and clambered in, their robes dripping and sodden.

  They had little knowledge of how to work the tiny sail and instead set their vessel coursing straight out beyond the breakers with a curt spell. Goodfellow took over from old Tudor when the man needed a rest and it was not until each of them had taken several turns that both of them were too tired to continue.

  ‘Your turn,’ Goodfellow said, scraping the salt and spray from his eyeglasses. ‘I need a rest.’ He sighed and released his spells, collapsing at the back of the boat next to the sleeping old man.

  Samuel was left crouching at the tip of the vessel as it lulled atop the lapping waters, rubbing the ring in his fingers nervously and thinking what he would say if he failed to get them moving. Alternatively, there was a good chance that the power of the ancient relic would shatter their craft into a thousand pieces and leave them flailing in the salty sea, and that would also require a tactful explanation. Slipping the ring onto his finger, Samuel tried his best to squeeze out only the tiniest trickle of power for a Moving spell. When he felt a torrent of power about to swell, he withdrew himself altogether before any magic could be released. It must have taken him twenty attempts, but finally he coaxed a tiny squirt of magic from the thing and the boat jerked ahead, before becoming becalmed as the spell expired. Daring to peer back towards the rear of the little boat, Samuel was relieved to see that old Tudor and Goodfellow were both still splayed out and fast asleep, too exhausted to notice his dismal attempts.

  Samuel continued for what seemed like hours, struggling with the ring and sending them ahead in lurching, intermittent spurts.

  They had only just reached a shallow cove and passed by a few clumps of lightly treed islands when Tudor coughed and spluttered and finally awoke. He came staggering to the front of the boat like a dazed drunkard.

  ‘You take a rest now,’ he said, still coming to full wakefulness, blinking quizzically at his surrounds.

  Samuel needed no further encouragement and climbed to his feet, stepping over the planks that acted as seats and setting the boat to rock about. Tudor’s spells fell into place and the vessel jumped forward, sending out curtains of translucent water from its bow and leaving a deep wake behind it, which the ocean rushed in to fill as they left it. Within minutes, they had travelled further than Samuel had managed the entire time.

  While the old man kept his eye on their path ahead, Samuel put his elbows onto his knees and cradled his head, pulling up his hood to keep out the light. Struggling with the Argum Stone had left him shivering and drained. It would take some time for him to expel its wearying effects.

  They passed the port cities of northern Turia and each one seemed to be intact and free of invaders. Indeed, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, the trio of magicians kept their noses due south and remained set for Cintar. Goodfellow was as keen as mustard to have his turns at the helm and, each time old Tudor sat down for a rest, he was quick to spring his spells into place before Samuel had need to think of any excuses. The passing fishing vessels eyed them with disbelief, for the sight of three bedraggled magicians surging southwards would have been cause for much talk in the sultry port taverns. Heedless of everything, they coursed their way home; three tiny figures on the lip of the sea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Beast and the Darkness

  Never in memorable history had so many miserable and disparaged faces filled the venerable Order chambers. The room was filled with the new Lords of the Order, appointed since the affair with Master Ash had destroyed most of the room and many of the old Lords in it. Samuel now knew most of them personally and, for a short time after the episode with Ash, he had enjoyed being a Lord, riding high on the initial wave of excitement after his great deed.

  Despite that initial burst of interest, he had not enjoyed his time on the Council, for they spent endless hours deliberating the most trivial of points, seeming to speak much and achieve little. Samuel had requested that someone more experienced take his place, but old Grand Master Anthem would not have it. The calculating old magician wanted Samuel there, watching and listening, ready to voice his concerns if the stubborn Turians on the Council got up to any mischief. While Samuel was in favour with Anthem, he was an invaluable tool— and Samuel knew he was being used as such—but given he had little choice in the matter, he had long since grown indifferent. Anthem always meant well, even if his methods were sometimes as devious and convoluted as the Turians themselves.

  Gallivan, Tudor and Anthem himself were also present. They were now the last of the fabled Lions of Cintar and, while they did not occupy seats on the Council (and declared they did not want to), their presence alone reflected the grim nature of Cintar’s current predicament.

  Lomar, the dark-skinned magician from the Kabush marshlands and Samuel’s long-time friend, was seated, also looking far more grim than usual. Lomar had led the Order in those early days after their numbers had been decimated, but now Jacobs held the mantle of High Lord. In direct contrast to the normally light-hearted Lomar, Jacobs was a humourless and pragmatic man. He and Samuel had had their differences in the past, and the man was as stubborn and frustrating an Imperial as there could be, but he had done well since taking up the seat, considering the circumstances, and Samuel could easily think of worse choices.

  Rubrick, Quimbus, Sandringham, Nottingsworth and Kalbak were the remaining Lords in the room. Normally, they numbered twelve, but the war had taken its toll and they could not even find time to elect more to their numbers from the dwindling stock of magicians in the city. These days, thankful of an extra opinion, they would allow anyone who was available into the discussions. Lastly, there was Master Celios, the great Seer of Cintar. His hair had grown thinner in recent times, now just a thin veil of reddish scrap fringing a bald scalp. He still made dismal efforts to cover his glistening pate by folding over the little dangling hair that still remained, but the effect was even less flattering than before. Adding to that, he seemed to have grown excited and irritable, with his eyes darting around the room as if tracking acrobatic horseflies.

  ‘Our situation is looking grim,’ Grand Master Anthem admitted, burying his face momentarily into his cupped hands, before resurfacing to scan the magicians around him with weary eyes. As always, his wispy white eyebrows hung down low, but the pure blue eyes that looked out from under them had never looked so troubled.

  The Magicians’ Council sat assembled around the chamber, while pageboys and servants stood behind in the shadows, prepared to fetch food and drink, or run any errand that could spontaneously arise.

  They had been deliberating the situation for hours now, and with little resolve. They had all hastily gathered the very moment that the three magicians had abandoned their little boat at the city docks and had come hurrying up to the palace, lifting up their ragged robe hems and ascending the many palace steps as fast as they could—and they had been locked in discussion ever since. It had been a long and arduous trip to the city and Samuel had been hoping for at least a good night’s rest before launching into any deliberation, but rest would have to wait. They had been granted the luxury of a basin to was
h their faces and a change of robes and, for the time being, that would have to suffice.

  Despite all the grim news, it had been an uplifting moment when Samuel saw Grand Master Anthem and Gallivan come striding into the chambers with haggard but determined faces. The two had obviously survived the battle at Rampeny unharmed and had even managed to flee overland and arrive back several days before them.

  Old Tudor had revealed the details of their journey to the gathering, but it seemed much had been happening even in the few days since Anthem had returned and there was now little to report that was not already known. As soon as the palace officials had learned of the desert people’s invasion, Cintar had become a flurry of vexation and consternation. While the generals and officials of the palace worried and debated, the city folk had caught wind of the situation and chaos in the streets had ensued. The Royal Guard was kept busy moving the people along, and the Empress gave daily announcements in an effort to calm their fears.

  Since then, reports had been coming in almost hourly of other battles across outer territories—each of them culminating in colossal losses for the Turians. The invaders were summarily destroying what remained of the Empire and were working their way towards inner Turia and the capital day by day. At the rate they were progressing, and with the sorry state of the remaining Imperial forces, there seemed to be little that could be done to halt their march towards Cintar. At the very least, it seemed the outermost lands would need to be abandoned in favour of an intensified defence.

  The Gartens seemed to have withdrawn back into the north out of concern for their own safety, but, with the chaos of the last week, it was difficult to confirm anything with complete confidence.

  ‘We must meet with the Empress immediately,’ Grand Master Tudor proclaimed in his tired old voice. ‘We need a coordinated and immediate response to this new threat.’

  ‘We’ve been in nothing else but meetings, with the Empress and everyone!’ Lord Sandringham responded, slapping the table with both hands. ‘We need to act now and stop these desert barbarians in one swift movement!’

  ‘Would that we could, Lord Sandringham,’ Gallivan told the eagle-nosed magician, ‘but these invaders seem to be far from barbarians. Their attacks are expertly planned and precisely executed. They are far more numerous than we can hope to match. They seem to be well organised in the art of war and have obviously been amongst us for some time, gathering information and intelligence. I’m sure they have agents in the city even now; probably in the palace, also. They seem to have the greater advantage in every way.’

  ‘General Ruardin sent his best men into the streets yesterday,’ High Lord Jacobs stated, patting his short, square-cut hair into place, despite it already looking solidly plastered to his head, ‘gathering up anyone with dark skin or sand on his boots. They will not have spies amongst us for long.’

  ‘These are enemies that should not be underestimated in any way,’ Gallivan continued, ‘for they have managed to defeat three Lions in the space of one battle; each of us targeted according to our skills. They had sneaked a small, but powerful, ballista into place at the front of the battle and had assembled it—at great cost to their men—all with the purpose of felling me. My fondness for Leaping was evidently known and when the opportunity arose, they launched a great bolt skywards towards me, trailing a rope soaked in extract of Eldinswurt, so as to resist my spells. It struck me expertly and brought me to ground amongst them, nearly costing me my life. It was only due to luck that I escaped. It shows advanced preparation and a specific desire to remove each of us. Poor Grand Master Orien was asphyxiated with poisons that burned through his defensive vines—they knew his affinity for plants. Grand Master Jurien was stabbed by an assassin’s blade; the man crept up close to him in disguise, bearing an exact replica of Jurian’s staff. How the first one was lost we shall perhaps never know, but it may even have been part of their designs. Grand Master Du perished in the mouth of one of their accursed beasts--great lizards! Sadly, he was not physically capable of defending himself from such an agile creature. And how they came to breed such monstrosities, I cannot guess.’

  ‘But where did they come from? How could we be taken by such surprise?’ Lord Kalbak, olive of skin, asked the room in his gruff voice. ‘Are we so blind to the state of the world?’

  Anthem answered. ‘It’s true we have paid little attention to the Paatin wastes beyond the Eastern Reaches, but before this we have never had the need.’ He took a great breath and sighed. ‘From all indications, we thought those lands to be barren, inhabited only by the odd nomadic family or primitive settlement. It seems we’ve been proven unquestionably wrong. It seems that somewhere in the midst of those lands there lies a developed civilisation that we have overlooked entirely until now, a civilisation capable of raising grand armies.’

  ‘The East has been examined on occasion, but was deemed unremarkable and unworthy of the Empire’s attention,’ Grand Master Gallivan said, setting his long, black moustache to waver. ‘The Emperor sent regular scouting parties in the old days, but they all came back with the same news: nothing to see except sand, wind and stone that went on for as far as they could bear. Many were lost attempting to breach those lands, and so the Paatin wastes were deemed unfit for human habitation.’

  ‘Perhaps these black-skinned barbarians are not human!’ Lord Quimbus piped up, but scathing looks from the gathering had him shutting up just as quickly.

  ‘I have also visited the fringes of the desert,’ Tudor announced. ‘Likewise Lord Lomar.’ At this, the magician from Kabush nodded in confirmation. ‘We have seen nothing to suggest any of this is possible. Yet, somehow, from within those parched lands have come armies of men.’

  ‘With the Emperor scouting every far corner for riches and taking it unto his own, I’m not surprised any inhabitants of the deserts thought best to keep their distance,’ Lord Quimbus said with disdain, but his comments caused the Turian stalwarts in the room—Jacobs and Nottingsworth in particular—to frown with distaste.

  ‘Well, we can’t be rushing to action hastily,’ old Tudor said, ‘but neither can we be sitting on our hands in deliberation. I’m assuming you’ve already spoken with the Empress at length.’

  ‘We have,’ Anthem responded, ‘but so far with little result. Unfortunately, the Empress is inexperienced in these matters and her advisers have clouded her in a fog of nonsense and bureaucracy. We may need to throw our fists down and bar them from the room while we speak some sense to her. Those simpletons refuse to accept the fact that if there is to be any hope of saving the Empire—in any form at all—we must sacrifice some of the outer territories and consolidate our defences within Turia. Lives will be lost, but the Empire simply cannot afford to spread itself thin. The Outlands will simply need to fend for themselves.’

  ‘But that’s abominable!’ Master Quimbus rallied. ‘The invaders are butchering everyone indiscriminately. We cannot abandon anyone. It goes against the very conscience of the Order.’

  ‘Actually, I believe the very opposite to be true,’ Anthem said with a measured tongue. ‘It’s evident that any town that yields is spared, so we should send word to towns in the Outlands to do exactly that. Any settlements that have resisted the desert people’s call to surrender have been wiped from the earth—every man, woman and child slain without exception. The buildings are pillaged and then burnt, all the crops laid to waste and salted at great expense. They are sending a clear and potent message ahead of them.’

  ‘It matters little what we do,’ Master Celios called out. All eyes turned to him, for he had been quiet until now, barely seeming to take note of the conversation. Strangely, he seemed to be clenching his fists tight, so that his arms were quivering with the effort.

  ‘Have you something to add to this, Master Celios? A vision, perhaps?’ Jacobs called out to the balding, bulging-eyed man.

  Celios snatched up his goblet and waved it to the servant waiting behind him. It was immediately topped up with water, leav
ing the attendant to step back into the shadows. Drinking deeply and noisily before smacking his lips, Celios’ actions were clumsy. ‘These armies are not what should be bothering us. We panic like fools at everything that catches our eye, yet we ignore the greater foe that comes to meet us.’

  The council room was quiet while each magician summed up the seer’s words. Some looked sidelong to each other and it seemed obvious that most were puzzled.

  Jacobs looked down his nose with concern. ‘Please explain, Master Celios.’

  Celios lurched to his feet and pointed a shaking finger directly at the High Lord. ‘These wars have been foretold again and again by seers greater and lesser than me. The world is overcome by madness and we shall struggle with each other until we are brought to our knees. This Age is done and the Devil King is returned. He sends this wave of violence before him, to ready us for his taking. It is only a matter of time before he shows himself and claims us for his own.’

  With that, he dropped back into his seat, but then seemed unsure of his surroundings. Celios looked around himself with bewilderment, drained of strength. He knocked his cup and water spilled across the table, yet he did not notice at all, as his sleeves began to soak up the spill. The attendant standing behind him nipped forward again and began soaking up the water with a square of cloth, lifting the man’s arms from the mess and cleaning around him, like a father tidying up around a careless child.

  ‘Master Celios indeed needs his rest and I’m sorry for his outburst,’ Jacobs explained. ‘I’ve had him awake the last few nights applying his skills to our situation and the responsibilities of a seer weigh heavy. He has gained no real insight into the Paatin Desert people, but he has grown increasingly disturbed in the process, which does not bode particularly well for us. I still hope he can gain some information on our new adversaries that will be of use to us, but for now I think the poor man needs some decent rest.’