The Ancient Ones (The Legacy Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Foster

  ‘The sea!’ came a cry. ‘It returns!’

  And the man was right; the ocean was hauling itself back towards the shore—a mass of crushing water, sliding landwards ... immense and unstoppable. It was not a wave, for a wave rose and fell. This was the ocean shifting eastwards as one vast body.

  The disturbance was less pronounced where it was deep, but closer to the rocks the effect was immediately apparent. The sea returned, surging and rushing over the rocks. The lone survivor turned to run, but had nowhere to go. He disappeared behind a veil of jetting spray.

  Leopold clutched onto the side of the Farstride. Being on such a great ship did little to comfort him in the sight of such danger.

  ‘Stop shaking like a little girl, Leopold,’ the magician told him. ‘It’s time to be a man. People are watching you and their faith rides on your strength. Your mother is not here; you have no skirts to hide behind.’

  ‘That’s fine for you to say, Magician. You have your magic. I have…’ and he struggled to find something he could use for example. He shook one arm towards the man. ‘Puffy sleeves!’

  ‘Fear is natural, Leopold, but you make a conscious decision to be afraid. It is not forced upon you. You choose to engage your feelings, whether you know it or not. Your emotions can trap you, yet they are cages of mist and smoke. You can break through easily enough, Leopold, if only you try. That is your lesson for today. Consider it well.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Leopold retorted sarcastically.

  Lord Samuel frowned. ‘And don’t call me Magician. Remember your promise, Leopold. I don’t like to be disappointed.’

  Leopold grunted and returned his attention to the unfolding spectacle of the sea’s return. At least Samuel’s lecture had cured him of his anxiety. His fear of the tide was insignificant compared to his detestation of the magician. So be it! I hope the anchors break and we are dashed upon the rocks. Anything to be rid of that damned magician!

  The distant figures of the men upon the dry seabed had noticed the ocean’s approach and they could be seen in a panic, insects attempting to flee. They could not outrun the sea, and as it bore down on them, it gathered speed, with its front edge building into a thundering wall of white water. It swallowed the fallen ships and smothered the men, continuing towards the city unabated. It hit the port, and the jetties vanished beneath an avalanche of foam.

  An incessant, distant roar was the only sound throughout. Lengths of timber exploded silently into the air. The sea continued its charge unchallenged and it struck the great walls of Cintar with all its might. Only then was its fury turned aside.

  Titanic jets of spray launched into the air and the initial surge licked halfway up the walls. Leopold expected the weight of the sea to pound the walls to rubble, but the barrier remained sound. The sea continued pouring into the bay, surging in and growing higher by the moment, but it turned at the walls, having met its equal, foaming and rushing to either side, washing up and around the city. It pushed inwards, climbing over every speck of land unto the base of the distant foothills at the edge of the plain.

  The bay had disappeared; the surrounding land had vanished. Everything around Cintar had been engulfed by the risen sea, an island City within the haven of its walls.

  Leopold considered climbing up onto one of the mastheads to gain a better view, for men hung from every raised space to observe the scene. Looking at his clothes, he decided no. He would catch himself on a ruffle or a shoulder pad and fall to his death.

  ‘The queen’s armies on the plain will be decimated,’ Captain Orrell said to the group.

  ‘They have perished already,’ Samuel said. ‘She had gathered them close to the city where they could be most intimidating. None made it to the hills. Her forces have now been halved. The remainder survive inside the walls. I will let the witch have her turn before I move my attention to them. Her response is gathering. The wind will rise. I will meet it. We must be prepared to sail in immediately after. Have your men tie everything down—firmly. Prepare for a storm of the fiercest kind.’

  Riggadardian took that as a signal to prepare, and he marched up and down the deck, urgently shouting commands. Captain Merryweather hurried over at the noise and the two spoke excitedly. Merryweather began shouting instructions as well, filled with dread. Mister Chapman bellowed furiously, standing tall to fill his lungs and deafening the crew with his cries.

  Every loose object was dragged away and the men strapped the sails into place, doubling and redoubling the cords around each roll of cloth, like rows of bound corpses strung beneath the spars. As they finished, the teams of men assembled in their lines and clusters, in specific spots across the deck. The soldiers marched in an orderly manner below, along with most of the crew. Some remained in the rigging above, dutifully awaiting their orders, despite the peril.

  Again, the sailors had the keenest eyes and they spotted the first signs before anyone else. Their calls rang out, and Leopold followed their pointed fingers to the distant inland sky, where voluminous clouds were accumulating into one enormous clot of grey and black that rolled in from over the far hills. It lined the entire coast and its shadow sent the earth dark. Billowing forward, its leading edge formed a sheer mountainous wall. On top, enormous clumps were sprouting, spreading up and out in hushed detonation. It did not look turbulent, indeed its size made it appear serene as it calmly pelted towards them.

  ‘What, by all the dead gods, is that?’ Captain Orrell said in awe.

  ‘A storm front,’ the magician replied. ‘Keep alert.’

  ‘I have never seen a storm such as that,’ Riggadardian gasped.

  ‘That’s right. You haven’t,’ Lord Samuel agreed with finality.

  The sea settled back into place, easing itself from the reef and rocks. A lake remained on the plain, and as the water retreated into the harbour, it resembled a great draining delta, carrying endless streams of detritus with it. Water poured from around the city and would continue to do so for days to come.

  The bay had calmed, leaving great holes ripped in the reef, revealing the mangled shape of the rocks. The force of the water had carved up the stone and the harbour would never be as calm, having lost much of its defences.

  The pennants and flags across the Farstride stopped flapping and fell dead as the wind lulled. Across the other boats beside and behind them, the same occurred, for the air had stilled. Then, the cloth sprang back into life, leaping in the opposite direction and pointing out to sea as the wind sprang up from the coast. The breeze was stiff, yet they all knew it would grow stronger still as the storm approached.

  Something caught Leopold’s eye, dark shapes flitting amongst the towers of Cintar. He had heard mention of the hellish beasts the witch had summoned to do her foul work. As he narrowed his eyes and strained to see, they disappeared within the shadow of the creeping cloud.

  A sudden increase in the magnitude of the wind sent everyone staggering. Riggadardian’s hat flew away, along with those of many of the crew. The metal helms of the soldiers remained tightly in place, but the men looked about with worry—those few that dared remain on deck. The air howled and any rope or line not taut juddered violently. Objects thought safe or having been neglected—lanterns and buckets especially—leapt from their pegs and holding places and smashed or raced across the deck. Streams of litter flew out to sea.

  ‘Get everyone below,’ Lord Samuel commanded, peering discontentedly at the men in sight, and Riggadardian reacted immediately, relaying the message to Captain Merryweather.

  Those crew in the rigging were called down—spiders blown about in their webs. They came down carefully in the high wind, and Leopold caught sight of one fellow plummeting—his cries lost in the gale. Thankfully, he fell into the sea rather than colliding with the deck and others were at work fishing him out as he hit the water. The last of the crew retreated below, peering out from within the doorways and hatches, ready to react upon command. The decks of the Farstride lay deserted, save Lord Samuel and the tiny
cluster around him.

  Lady Wind made a transient appearance from afar, venturing from the safety of the aftcastle.

  ‘Get back below, you foolish woman!’ Riggadardian yelled towards her, but the sound was strangled as it left his mouth. Finally, struggling against the wind, she turned about and disappeared of her own accord.

  ‘Emperor Leopold,’ Captain Orrell called loudly from one step away, straining to be heard. ‘You go back to your room, too,’ but Samuel’s hand clamped down upon Leopold’s shoulder.

  ‘He is safer with me,’ the magician said calmly, and Orrell nodded without question, leaving Leopold to remain between them.

  The cloud was now halfway across the bay and the sea danced beneath its shadow, agitated and excited. The wind curled and twisted, forced into chaos by the weight of the cloud. Water leapt and droplets defied gravity, forming streams of spray, racing and spiralling into the heavens.

  ‘There!’ Daneel called, for several such fairies had joined to make a tight grey spiral.

  A cone of wind and water had gathered, and it gyrated madly, stretching a twisted blade of vapour towards the fuelling mass above. The water devil thickened at its base, gathering seawater, forming a monstrous vortex five Farstrides wide. Others came into being alongside, advancing side by side.

  All along the shadow’s edge they formed, closing on the fleet like giants marching to war. The roaring noise was ungodly, sucking and squelching, but the cloud was ominously quiet as it continued towards them, dragging its turbulent payload below, closing in to deliver chaos.

  ‘Lord Samuel!’ Riggadardian said, full of dismay, but the magician said and did nothing.

  The five of them were the only ones left upon the deck of the mighty Farstride, for even Captain Merryweather and Mister Chapman had sheltered nearby, their faces looking out from their hatch with worry. Nothing could withstand the bedlam that approached. Even the mighty Farstride was but a fistful of sticks compared to such intense forces.

  Daneel looked aghast, clutching onto the side of the ship and squinting against the wind with his single eye.

  The great spout in front hit the reef and tore up the rocks. Dark hunks spiralled inside the vortex and pieces fired out at height and rained down, crashing into the sea. Fragments struck the deck of the Farstride, smashing holes, and the other ships of the fleet sustained similar damage.

  All this and still the magician did nothing to protect them.

  Rain fell, suddenly battering them in heavy, swirling sheets that rose and fell in ferocity with the wind. Leopold licked his lips, salty from the seawater being sucked up and spewed out by the gyres.

  Dangerously, several ships had strayed closer to land and a neighbouring waterspout approached them. The noise of the water devils was already overwhelming, but as they neared they thundered and howled louder still.

  ‘We’re going to lose those ships!’ Daneel called out, watching the men panic upon the deck.

  ‘Yes,’ Samuel responded calmly.

  ‘Why don’t you do something, Magician?’ Leopold shouted.

  The black-cloaked man looked at him scathingly. ‘Lord Magician.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Leopold yelled back. ‘This is no time for such nonsense!’

  ‘The witch is waiting for me,’ Lord Samuel spoke without hurry. Despite their words struggling against the wind, he spoke softly, and was heard clearly by all. ‘I cannot appear too strong. Not yet. I will cast her fury back upon her ... soon enough.’

  Leopold was flabbergasted. He felt helpless as the grey edge of the funnel met the first ship to their left and half the vessel disintegrated. The front section exploded into shreds that tore away with the wind. The rest of the ship lurched, momentarily freed from the embrace of the monster that had gripped it. The waterspout continued forward, taking hold of the remains, clambering over them and methodically tearing the ship apart. Men jumped into the sea, lost in the wind and spray—their fates uncertain.

  The captain on one of the two-masted brigs alongside the Farstride—the Grey Gull—must have lost his nerve, for his men unfurled the sails to escape. No sooner had the cloth unravelled than it tore from the rigging and raced into the storm, wrenching away the supporting spars with them, leaving the ship defenceless.

  Slowly, with indifference, another gyre further along devoured a ship completely.

  The nearest maelstrom was nearly upon the Farstride and the wind turned abruptly sideways just before it hit. The column of water raced around the core, about to engulf them.

  ‘Samuel!’ Captain Orrell bellowed above the noise, his mouth close to the magician’s ear. ‘Do something before we are lost!’

  The magician did not seem to hear him. They kept a firm hold of the railing to keep their footing. All except Samuel, who stood freely. Apart from his cloak standing from his body, he was untouched by the wind—unaware of its existence. He did not blink or shield his eyes. He watched on sedately, observing the raging wall of spinning chaos as if appreciating some extraordinary, delicate work of art.

  ‘Samuel!’ Daneel, too, shouted, holding on for dear life and looking ill with dread.

  Leopold could not hear the magician’s response, but he could swear the word wonderful passed the man’s lips. Indeed, the magician was mesmerised by the pandemonium about to engulf them, as if relishing a tragic end for them all.

  Nothing was visible except a wall of screaming wind and water. The world was obscured by spray and vapour. Leopold would have run screaming if it not meant letting go of the sturdy handrail.

  Desperately, Captain Orrell prised himself from the railing, grabbed Samuel by his robes and shook him. ‘By the gods, Samuel, do something! We cannot help you save your precious son if we are all dead! Do something now!’

  The Farstride was listing to the right and heaving at her anchors under the strain. The tip of the vessel met the vortex and the protruding bowsprit was whipped away and vanished.

  At that, Samuel awakened from his stupor, and raised both his arms wide in praise to the heavens. His sleeves rippled with the wind, baring his pale arms to the elbows. Captain Orrell stepped back and retook his hold on the ship, for Samuel’s eyes were wide with madness, and the air became laden with energy. Droplets of moisture leapt from the handrails and shivered a finger’s breadth above the deck, held aloft by an unseen force that coursed through the timber.

  A blast of air struck from behind. The fleet shuddered and the Farstride rocked forward with a resounding moan. Their anchors held, but the change in the wind pushed them nearer to danger, for in being set straight, the Farstride was shoved into the embrace of the spout. They crashed through the wall of grey, and Leopold thought them doomed, but the funnel evaporated upon contact, snaking into the sky in retreat. The salty rain ceased and the world materialised as the spray settled. Along the storm front, the other water devils had likewise been reduced to slivers withdrawing into the clouds.

  Wreckage scarred the sea where ships had previously existed, and scores of bodies filled the water. The wind maintained a stiff breeze from the west, but up high it still blew wildly. The immense cloud over them no longer appeared serene. It churned in turmoil as it crumpled, folding inwards upon itself, reversing its path and heading back for land.

  Samuel lowered his arm. He continued staring towards the city, as if steering the thunderhead with his gaze.

  ‘About time, Magician!’ Daneel said, adjusting his eyepatch and pushing his clothes back into place. His fern green cape was wrapped in wet knots, dangling miserably over his shoulder until he flicked it behind him. ‘I thought our adventure was already at its end.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Lord Samuel spoke. ‘Commander, ready the fleet.’

  Riggadardian was recovering from the ordeal, but Samuel’s words had him finding his wits. He stammered commands to Captain Merryweather, being one of the first to appear, and the man repeated them at a holler.

  His crew poured from the many doors that led from below decks and they swarmed the ladd
ers and rope webbing. Others went to their ropes or positions and worked with faultless Turian precision, heaving and hauling in time to Mister Chapman’s barking calls. Soldiers swamped the decks with their numbers, flowing out of every entrance and hatchway in orderly queues. On the other vessels, the command was likewise relayed and the ships pulled their anchors and readied their sails in anticipation of the assault.

  ‘Beware the rocks!’ Riggadardian bellowed, for broken stones thrust up from the mouth of the unsettled ocean. He looked to Lord Samuel for confirmation. The magician’s simple nod gave the order, and Riggadardian roared, ‘Advance!’

  ‘Advance!’ Merryweather echoed and Lieutenant Fillius sent a row of bright triangular banners along one of the guy ropes—green, red and yellow in turns. The fleet made headway, readied in remarkable time after the turning of the storm.

  The smaller vessels were first to move and they fought their way into the bay, pursued by the galleons and other larger craft. The water remained upset and the tide was moving against them, but the wind blowing stiffly at their backs saw them safely into the harbour, with the great mass of the Farstride prowling behind.

  Far away, the storm cloud was firmly over Cintar and grey tendrils appeared. They explored their way down, criss-crossing and interweaving, feeling their way. From this distance, it appeared tranquil as the holocaust of wind descended.

  It was as if some irresistible melody, unheard by human ear, fell upon the city. Giant butterflies peeled away from the rooftops, following each other in a delicate airborne dance; but then Leopold realised they were the rooftops, fluttering away into the air one after another. The roofs and other objects had forgotten their earthbound nature and one by one they joined the aerial ballet. They contorted and circled, listless gulls playing upon the columns of air, moving faster and faster as they gathered tighter, abruptly passing some hidden threshold and shooting into the heavens.

  It became apparent the scene was not so serene when some of the floating specks proved to be people. Some flailed shortly before going limp, flotsam upon a whirling tide.