The General’s Legacy
Part One: Inheritance
Adrian G Hilder
Contents
Map of Valendo, Nearhon and Emiria
Prologue The Old General
Chapter 1 Prince Cory
Chapter 2 The Meeting of Minds
Chapter 3 Princess of the Old Enemy
Chapter 4 Developing Talent
Chapter 5 Diplomacy and Espionage
Chapter 6 The Departure
Chapter 7 The Storm
Chapter 8 Guardians of the Streets
Chapter 9 Homecoming and Failure
Chapter 10 Keeping Cool
Chapter 11 Lord Silver
Chapter 12 Breaking Camp
Chapter 13 Crisis of Faith
Chapter 14 Beldon Valley
Chapter 15 The Toughest Decision
Part Two: Whiteland King Sample Chapter 1 The Woman in Black… or Blue
Dedication
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Map of Valendo, Nearhon and Emiria
‘A legacy is not what is recorded in history books or repeated in song, but what is woven into the souls of those who remain.’
— Bai-turo Samar, Philosophies on Life: Year of the Church of the Sun 356
Prologue
The Old General
The Battle of Beldon Valley in the year of the Church of the Sun, 1852.
On the eve of his last battle, General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra lay on his belly upon a mountain ledge. The rock was smooth, the retreat of summer leaving it cold to the touch. ‘What can you see through that thing?’ he murmured.
‘Just about everything that's going on below,’ replied the hooded mage beside him, not taking his eye from the device.
‘Is it enchanted?’
The mage looked around and Garon saw anxiety in his dark eyes.
‘No. I call it a telescope…’
Garon put on a mask of mock disappointment.
‘…but I did use magic to help construct it,’ the mage finished.
Garon changed his expression, widening his eyes in anticipation, and the mage offered the telescope in response. Garon placed it against his eye and pointed it at the valley below.
Lieutenant General Quain Marln broke the moments of silence that followed. ‘I’m estimating twenty thousand soldiers, six hundred archers, no cavalry or chariots… I think I’ve found three mages so far, and… What are those things?’
‘Big,’ Garon replied.
‘I can see that much,’ said Quain.
‘They have long teeth,’ said Garon. ‘Lots of long teeth in a mouth that opens very wide… Also, claws the size of a man. Six of them in a line — and they do not look very happy.’ He removed his eye from the telescope and looked around with a frown. ‘Food is being prepared and one of them has what looks like a camp cook in its mouth.’
The mage uttered some word-like sounds with his own gaze concentrated on the events below. ‘Interesting…’ he said.
‘Zeivite, what are those things?’ demanded Garon.
‘It is hard to be sure from this distance,’ Zeivite replied. ‘In part, they are something summoned from… elsewhere. I see summoning magic at work.’
‘Can’t you un-summon them?’
‘This sort of thing is not really my speciality.’
‘But can you do it?’
‘I’d need to research the problem for a while.’
Garon’s tone sank. ‘How long?’
Zeivite leant his head forward, stretching stiff neck muscles, and scratched under the hood of his blue-green robes until he felt he could delay answering no longer.
‘Two… maybe three —’
‘Hours?’ Garon interrupted eagerly.
‘— years.’ Zeivite sighed.
‘I don’t think they are going to wait that long before marching south and attacking,’ said Garon, handing the telescope back to the mage, his eyes still fixed on the clawed creatures.
‘Have faith,’ said Quain, ‘we've never been beaten before, and Zeivite always has a new trick hidden up his sleeves.’ He flashed the mage a broad grin.
‘There is always a first time for losing,’ Zeivite said gravely. ‘And they are not tricks, as you well know.’
Zeivite returned the telescope to his right eye and continued to observe the beasts. The one with the cook in its mouth opened its jaw and dropped the body. Soldiers avoided the beast like chickens round a tethered hunting dog — except one, who strayed too close and was swiped into a cooking fire by a claw. A commander wearing a peaked helmet with ear guards started shouting and pointing. Unarmed messengers ran off into different parts of the camp as the soldier in the fire, too wounded to move, screamed and smoke began to rise. Another beast, the one nearest the general and his scouting party, repeatedly pulled on its chains.
Garon and Quain shuffled closer together on their elbows. They talked while studying how the soldiers were armed and armoured. At this distance, it felt like an after-dinner game they had played hundreds of times. They had done this for real more times than any of them wanted to count. The valley widened to the north, from where the enemy came. In the south, it narrowed and deepened. A river ran down its western side. They held onto the hope that the enemy’s greater numbers would be less of an advantage there where they would be waiting for them. Dendra Castle, the ancestral home of the monarchs of Valendo, was perched on a low rock buttress at the south end of the valley in defiance of all attempts from the Kingdom of Nearhon to conquer it.
Zeivite watched the beast break free of its chains. Soldiers scattered as it ran to the fire, picked up the burning soldier, still screaming, and shoved him headfirst into its mouth. The first beast chained beside the fire lashed out at the newcomer with its claws.
‘Hungry... and they seem to like the smell of burning flesh. That has potential,’ mused Garon.
‘I don’t think burning some of our soldiers as a distraction is a sensible move for morale, General,’ Quain muttered, with a smirk.
Garon chuckled. ‘Pigs.’
‘They smell like people when burned,’ replied Quain, his smirk fading.
‘We’re done here,’ Garon grunted, then turned and crawled away from the rock ledge.
***
Brown eyes looked out from beneath a blackened leather hood, studying the scene below from the shadows above the rock ledge. The man kept watch on the activity in the valley after the other three men had left. A mage in purple robes arrived and calmed the beast, seeming to control it as it allowed itself to be chained again. Double chains this time. Men waved and shook their fists at each other in anger; none of them approached the mage. Food was distributed to the soldiers. The man saw no signs the general’s scouting party had been seen and no sign of enemy scouts. It was quiet, with just a gentle breeze drifting in from the south.
His job done, the scout commander slipped out of the shadows to follow the general and deliver his report.
***
In the light of dawn, General Garon Artifex-Dendra stood by his horse, looking like a statue already carved in his honour. Before him stood ten formations of soldiers in an arrangement debated late into the previous evening. Behind him, there were three hundred cavalry horses, four hundred archers and catapults.
Catapults were not new on the general’s battlefields, but a dozen spit-roasted pigs tended by cooks were. Standard-bearers were positioned in front of the catapults at the centre, the yellow sun on royal blue flags wavering in the breeze. Fur
ther south, at their backs, stood Dendra Castle, their capital city, Tranmure, and their wives, children and hopes for a peaceful life.
Garon looked behind and nodded to a man in black armour on a dark warhorse at the head of the cavalry formation. A bronze sun blazed on the rider’s shield and he held a mace in his right hand. Unlike the other cavalrymen, his visor was already closed. The rider nodded in reply, then Garon faced forward and began to lead his horse up the middle of the field. The soldiers were armed with spears, large shields and short-swords for close-formation fighting.
In the centre of their ranks, Garon stopped, a clank of his plate armour punctuating the halt. ‘This is the Silver Warrior’s place, my friend,’ he said to Quain. ‘May you find trouble before it finds you.’
They clasped hands in the warrior’s handshake. It appeared more like the start of an arm wrestle than a gesture of goodwill.
‘I do like the nickname the men have chosen for me,’ Quain said, ‘but is it my armour or my tongue that inspired it?’
Garon grinned. ‘You can ask them at the after-battle feast.’
The general and his mage continued their procession up the field.
‘I used to be a mercenary looking for adventure to test myself. How did I get this job?’ Garon mused, voice too low for anyone but Zeivite to hear.
‘You married a princess, which puts you in a position where a king may make use of you.’
‘She didn’t tell me she was a princess until it was too late.’
‘You’re softer than you look.’
‘So is she — not that anyone believes me. If only I’d married someone uncomplicated, like your Tania.’
‘I wouldn’t say she was uncomplicated,’ Zeivite replied, eyes wide. ‘She manages Green Island Castle better than Quain ever could, or wants to, yet you bestowed it to him.’
‘You could have had your own castle.’
‘And I could turn you into a scrap of amphibious pond life. Fortunately, neither of these things will be allowed to happen. Green Island Castle has a great library adjoining ideal laboratory space.’
‘Painter and sculptor’s room, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. The natural light is wonderful.’
Garon stopped next to his special operators. There were only thirty of them and they were a very different kind of soldier, wearing metal dome helmets, lightweight chainmail and leather armour. Each was armed with a long sword and crossbow. Some carried grappling hooks and ropes; others a pair of spears and other smaller assortments of tools.
They watched the unnatural beasts in the enemy Nearhon army’s ranks silently lift their heads, open their tooth-filled mouths and claw at the sky.
‘How come we don’t get summoned beasts to fight for us, sir?’ came a shout.
Garon shouted back, ‘Commander Jaygee, look to your right at the twenty-nine summoned beasts ready to go. You outnumber those puppies five to one. It will be like picking flowers for your mother in the garden.’
‘Yes, sir!’
The operators laughed, a sound that drew the fear from nearby soldiers like the wind stealing smoke from a campfire.
Garon mounted his horse and raised a flag. Cooks started to heave pigs off spits and load the catapults. The cavalrymen led by the black rider closed their helmet visors.
From the approaching Nearhon army, the six summoned beasts leapt forward. The thought of Valendo soldiers as their source of sustenance was forefront in their minds, forced on them by their purple robed masters.
Garon thrust out his arm, saying, ‘It is time.’
Zeivite muttered something, cupping his hands, then reached up to grasp the mail-covered forearm as Garon hauled him onto the warhorse.
The mage spoke again, moving his hands around the shape of the horse, the general and himself. All three of them vanished. Only hoofprints on the ground and the sound of the horse’s breathing betrayed their presence.
Garon quickly clamped his legs to the saddle and the horse launched into a gallop up the middle of the field through a gap between soldier formations. They crossed the zone where friend and foe mixed in a chaos of metal and blood. Garon watched the clawed beasts ripping limbs and heads from bodies.
Rippers would be the right name for them, he thought grimly.
The only sounds they made came from weapons and armour being wrenched aside, and bones torn from muscle.
This is insane, Garon thought as he rode on, forcing the thought and sounds of screaming from his mind. The Vale horse beneath him was bred for strength and stamina, not speed. He waited, still invisible, with forced patience for the ground to the back of the enemy army to pass. Few soldiers noticed the sound of beating hooves and divots of turf kicked up by the invisible horse.
***
In the middle of the field, Quain swept his sword from its scabbard; a yellow jewel in the hilt lit up like the opening of a lizard’s eye. He saw the beasts that would become known as Rippers cut into the front ranks of his men. Not trusting even a warhorse to face up to them, he ran as fast as his armour would allow towards the nearest. He watched the beast move as he approached, swinging his sword to warm his arm muscles. One man was dealt a deadly blow and his head, severed by a huge claw, spun through the air at Quain. He raised his shield to deflect the head and slowed, waiting for an opening. There were too many soldiers trying to engage the beast with swords that lacked the reach to be effective.
‘Make way!’ Quain cried.
Men scattered to the sides and Quain advanced between clawed arms, stabbed the beast’s narrow chest where its heart and lungs should be. A claw grabbed him and threw him to the ground. Struggling to rise quickly while encased in armour, Quain knelt beneath the thrashing claws and raised his blade to ward off the blows, but he was too slow in turning its edge to make a cut. Another claw grabbed his shield and pulled; Quain used the force to rise to his feet before releasing the shield and retreating a few steps, breathing hard.
The Ripper, finding no body attached to the shield, dropped it and advanced. The Silver Warrior took his sword in both hands, stepped forward and slashed. A claw tumbled into the enemy ranks. Quain turned like clockwork with the Ripper’s movement, taking the second approaching claw onto his blade, cutting fingers. Reversing the swing, he crouched and cut into its knee cap.
Oblivious to its wounds, the lame beast limped after him. He stepped back, assessing the increasingly wretched thing the way a woodsman considers a troublesome tree stump. Timing a two-handed swing to avoid a slashing claw, he cut off the beast’s good leg. The Ripper fell and Quain beheaded it with two more strokes. Vacant black eyes stared at Dendra Castle as five more of the beasts scythed their way through soldiers, moving ever forward. The Rippers picked up the dying, biting into them as they struggled for their last breath, and then tossed them aside.
The catapults released, flinging six roasted pigs over the Rippers' heads into the enemy ranks.
Quain looked up from the Ripper he had dismembered. He was isolated in a no man’s land between the armies, created by the sweep of huge claws that now lay still. The enemy soldiers ahead of him formed up and advanced. One on one, he was unmatched by anyone other than, perhaps arguably (and argued it was around many tavern tables), the general himself. But the weight of the enemy numbers would crush him.
Backing off, he retrieved his shield and joined his own advancing soldiers. Hunting for another Ripper, he worked his way across the field towards the river.
***
Still invisible, Garon and Zeivite slid from the back of their horse and checked the location of three enemy mages. They were spread across the back of the field, each focused on the purpose of the Rippers they controlled.
‘Where are they now?’ whispered Garon.
Upon the utterance of a few inhuman words, Zeivite’s awareness entered the whole battlefield. He felt the creeping flow of the conflict and his eyes glazed in concentration as he focused on what he was seeking. ‘Give
it ten more seconds,’ he muttered.
Garon measured four breaths, then drew the twin of Quain’s sword. Its yellow jewel lit up like the opening of a lizard’s eye and he froze, then suddenly yelled, ‘I’m not too old for this!’
He came back to his senses.
With more strange words, Zeivite began a show. His audience were the archers arrayed on the field, for, in this moment, the general and the mage reappeared. Zeivite directed a bolt of magical energy at the nearest enemy mage in purple robes on their left. The bolt flashed, spread and melted into an unseen spherical shield surrounding the mage. Panicked archers took aim — mostly at Zeivite. Some archers were slain by more bolts of energy, while others fired arrows that bounced away from an invisible shield surrounding Zeivite and Garon. Neither man flinched. They had the enemy mage’s attention now; with one of his Rippers destroyed, he was more able to deal with his new attackers.
Garon advanced. Zeivite matched his steps and their prey stepped back, casting his own volley of energy bolts. A brilliant spectrum of coloured light obscured their vision as the bolts battered Zeivite’s shield, and suddenly they found themselves teetering on the edge of a deep hole. A shower of earth fell to the ground around them.
‘Hurry,’ Zeivite called as Garon took out a throwing knife. The mage touched the knife, adding an enchantment, and then Garon threw it. The knife tumbled through the air and glowed as it passed through the enemy’s invisible shield. It struck and dispelled the enemy mage’s last line of defence — a shield that covered the skin. The purple-robed mage wore an expression of determination as he raised his arms to begin complex magic.
‘What’s he doing?’ Garon demanded.
‘Something we cannot afford him to finish.’
The men crouched.
‘How’s your timing?’ Garon muttered.
A grin spread on Zeivite’s usually stern face.
They saw the black-armoured rider break through foliage on the riverbank onto the battlefield, a cloud of silence moving with him. A short gallop away stood a tall figure in purple robes, sporting messy black hair and thick eyebrows that marked him out as Magnar. He was the architect of Nearhon’s war campaign, and the rider’s primary target. The tall mage saw movement in his peripheral vision and dropped control over his Rippers as he threw a look of frustration at the approaching rider. With a flick of his hand and a brief word, a fading silhouette full of blue stars became the only sign he had been there at all. With his intended target gone, the rider advanced on the mage facing Garon and Zeivite. Behind him, the cavalry cleared the riverbank and ran down the lines of archers, scattering them with lance and sword.
The General's Legacy - Part One: Inheritance Page 1
