The General's Legacy - Part One: Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  It occurred to him his hiding place was probably no longer a hiding place. How cautious was the mage today? Zeivite turned around, his eyes locking with his that peered out of the bushes. As cautious as anticipated. Mages change all of the rules. The only way to hide from a mage’s battle sense is in plain sight. He stood.

  ‘You must be hungry and thirsty hiding out here half the night. Why don’t you join us for breakfast?’ Zeivite said.

  The scout commander didn’t know whether to feel annoyed for being uncovered or the matter of fact way the question was toned. So he did what he planned to do and began to see where events would take him. Nodding once to each of the men, he followed them as they left the palace courtyard. He kept a distance of ten paces behind them, mostly hidden in plain sight. Women dressed in their grey domestic working clothes were hanging out washing in the newly arrived sunlight, but they stopped to watch the robed mage and the prince in metal armour. Some even stopped midway through pinning their sheets to the line outside their houses to stare.

  The scout commander knew no one would pay attention to him except maybe another scout, and he was certain there were none of those near to see. After all, he would know; he was the perfect scout commander. He just needed to prove it again to his fiercest critic: the voice in his head that guided, checked and checked again everything he did.

  How would I have done this thing? he thought to himself. He patiently waited for the answer to present itself.

  Chapter 10

  Keeping Cool

  The Battle of the South Nearhon Downs 1850.

  Kingdom Army of Valendo led by King-Consort General Garon Allus Artifex-Dendra.

  Deaths: approximately 2200.

  Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by General Magnar.

  Deaths: approximately 3700.

  — Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo

  Dawn broke with bird song.

  William, as his mother had always called him, pounded a metal plate gripped in pliers with his hammer. A clash and a ring accompanied a spray of bright orange sparks that were liberated from the glowing workpiece. He never tired of hearing that sound. It was as satisfying to his soul as his wife’s pork and apple pies were to his stomach — the same pies that his little Millie would pull bits of pork from, claiming they were too tough for her baby teeth to chew. ‘Can’t I just have apple pie, Mummy?’ she would often say. Bless her.

  He was getting good at making maces, and the other three lads in his smithy worked on them too. There were twenty-three of them so far, lined up against the back wall like little soldiers standing to attention and waiting for inspection. The young general had demanded five thousand maces for the next day. Good luck with that, William thought. The mace was the ideal weapon for crushing bone and flesh alike. Every smithy in Tranmure clamoured with the sounds of their making. William took the six thick triangular plates he had made and pushed them into a boxed sand mould. It was a crude way to make the head but quantity took priority over artistic quality. He picked up an iron shaft the length of his arm and dangled it into a fist-sized hole in the centre of the mould.

  ‘All right, Sammy, ready for pouring,’ said William.

  ‘Coming, Billy.’ Samuel walked gingerly from the hot furnace, carrying a crucible of white-hot molten iron in giant tongs that took both his hands to hold. He poured the hot liquid into the mould; the two men’s eyes twinkled in its bright yellow light and their grimy faces shone with sweat. After a few minutes, William slowly let go of the iron shaft and it stood by itself in the cooling metal.

  It was a change from the horseshoes, hoes, hammers and mining tools they usually made. Not that anyone had enquired about mining tools in the last week. The remaining miners William knew stayed at home contemplating their survival and the possibility of taking up a new career.

  They worked through the morning until William suddenly announced, ‘Twen’y-four. I think it’s lunchtime, lads.’ The reply was a clattering of downed tools. He drew the sleeve of his grey cotton shirt across his forehead taking sweat and black grime with it. William rooted out his lunchbox and water skin from the metal and rag clutter on a workbench by the door. Then he exchanged the white heat of the furnace for the radiant heat of the day. After about ten minutes of sitting on the bench outside the workshop, the lads usually reckoned on cooling off and drying out a bit.

  ‘It’s only as flippin’ ’ot out ’ere as it was in there.’

  ‘Stand up to it, Tommy — at least you’re not the one ’anging by the furnace all day long.’

  ‘’S only because you’re too much of a coward to lemme do the pourin’, Johnny boy.’

  William finished taking a long drag on his water skin and looked over the rooftops from where he sat. Both his smithy and his home were on a rise in this part of Tranmure. Now that the midday heat was building up on the dark grey buildings, ever greater numbers of window shutters were being thrown open by their occupants desperate for even the slightest breeze. William opened his lunchbox. It was wooden, leather-lined and made by his own hand. He found something inside almost as good cold as it was when hot: a generous cut of pork and apple pie. He carefully lifted it with both hands to his mouth and took a big bite. That freed up space for a handful of little red tomatoes to roll around in the box, trying to find a resting place. William breathed in and sighed with relief. Working flat out since dawn on the maces was draining. The other lads had stopped chattering, their mouths now busy with whatever their wives had wrapped or boxed for them — all except his apprentice, Samuel, who still had a mother at home to organise him. Samuel was a good sort and fitted right in at ‘the smithy on the hilly’, as he put it, joining in the name game with the others. A rich, savoury, fruity flavour exploded in William’s mouth as he bit one of the little tomatoes with his back teeth. Amazing how the little things could still spurt juice from way back in the mouth and out onto his shirt. No matter, it could hardly make what he wore any dirtier than it was already.

  Wonder when I’m going to get paid for all this work? he mused. At the rate they were going, they’d be out of iron ingots and bars by this time tomorrow. Paying for the next consignment and wages would be difficult. That is assuming the smelters had any now that the mines were almost shut down. There was a war on, so everyone keeps going until they can’t. It was a war without visible armies, where the enemy stalks the streets claiming your comrades for their own as they go. Flippin’ charmin’, that is — not a good time to be a guard or a soldier… until the situation makes soldiers of us all, William thought.

  He remembered what happened fifteen years ago. The older brothers and fathers of his friends had marched north into Beldon Valley and only half returned. None had any tales they wanted to tell. They became quiet men who tried to slip back into lives that some no longer fit into. That was when William became an apprentice to his father (God rest his soul) in the smithy.

  William picked the last fallen pastry crumbs of the pork and apple pie out of his lap. Could eat that again, he thought, stuffing the last tomatoes into his mouth and clamping his lips shut to contain the burst as he bit them. William slapped his lunchbox lid shut and took a swig from his waterskin before corking it. He stood and paused at the door back into the workshop, bracing himself for the heat before pulling it open. Placing his lunchbox back on the workbench, he eyed the glowing furnace the way a horse marshal inspects a mount before heading into battle. He fed it more coal with a shovel then pumped on great, wheezing bellows. The furnace brightened and rumbled as the other lads returned to their workplaces. The clashing and ringing resumed, followed by the setting of moulds and the pouring of molten iron. Fifty little mace soldiers were lined up on the back wall by the day’s end. Collection for whatever they had managed to produce was arranged for tomorrow afternoon.

  William wiped his forehead with a dirty rag and staggered out of the workshop doorway like the walking dead. He bid goodnight to Sammy, Tommy and Johnny before locking up and dragging himsel
f up the hill. He looked up into the houses as he passed through the streets. Almost every one of them had open window shutters, begging for a breath of air. Mary opened the door for him and he stumbled across the threshold. He kissed an exuberant Millie goodnight, but she wasn’t at all tired. The kiss left behind a sooty print on her forehead that Mary wiped off with the heel of her hand and her own spit.

  Dinner was more of the pork in a stew, with a scant selection of vegetables. The stalls at the market were getting lighter and prices going up. Mary complained about cowardly farmers unwilling to come into town; what with an army arriving soon, how would they all be fed? William thought of four thousand nine hundred and fifty maces that would have to come from somewhere as he headed upstairs to bed. He looked out of their open bedroom window and down onto slate-covered rooftops just visible in the faint moonlight. Further east on higher ground were the forms of more terraced houses appearing as shadows sinking into the dark night. Peeling the sweat-dampened shirt off his shoulders, he washed away the day’s grime with cloths and a large bowl of rapidly blackening water set in front of the window. Clean but still damp, he half fell into bed and was asleep almost as fast as his ‘not tired’ Millie a few hours before.

  ***

  ‘I never believed I would actually have to wear all this for real and go into battle.’

  The man was naturally strong, fair-haired, unassuming in his mid-twenties and the same five feet nine inches in height as Archpriest Ranold. The young man’s black priest’s robes lay on the floor of the church basement. It was a large open space illuminated by oil lamps attached to black pillars dropping down from arches to the floor. The pillars supported the church floor above where the congregation would sit. Lining the eastern wall were dark stained wardrobes, glass fronted display cases and bookcases. The largest of the wardrobes stood with both its doors open revealing a frame shaped like the kind of stick man a child might draw. Ranold tightened new leather straps on the black lacquered plate armour now fitted to the young man. The old armour recorded its history in the tiny creases, small dents and touched-up patches in the black lacquer.

  ‘I am far too old for this work, Laurence. I have trained you as well as I can. You must rely on God, your conscience and others around you to be your guide now.’ Ranold winced at the effort to tighten a strap. No, if he was honest with himself, the wince was at the dark memories on his conscience that seeing the armour again brought back to him.

  Pausing a moment, he inspected his efforts in securing the armour on his protégé, then turned to lift a black shield emblazoned with a bronze sun off its mounting on the wall. Then he stopped, moved closer, planting both feet squarely in front of the shield, and lifted it with both hands. Laurence slipped his left arm through the shield straps, grasped the handle on the back and effortlessly lifted it before him. Ranold turned once again, this time to a weapon rack on the wall carrying two maces. Both were black and bound at the handle in new leather, one a good half an arm’s length longer than the other. The archpriest selected the shorter of the two; it seemed much heavier than it ever had done before. The remaining horseman’s mace was heavier still. It carried the weight of that black memory riding on his conscience. Ranold tried not to picture the flashes of magic melting into the invisible spherical shield of the Nearhon battle mage. His memories of the Battle of Beldon valley led to the bursting of a skull on top of purple-robed shoulders. He felt the crunch sensation through the mace handle all over again.

  Laurence took the mace and watched as Ranold lifted the bronze sun fixed on a thick chain from around his neck. ‘Take the peace and silence of the church with you,’ said Ranold as he looped the chain over the neck guard of the armour. Fixing his eyes on Laurence’s, he took a grave tone. ‘Be careful not to use this near the archmage. He will be most unamused and it could be the death of both or more of you.’

  Laurence nodded.

  The finishing touch to the formidable ensemble was a helmet placed over Laurence’s head with the visor up. Ranold looked him over as he spoke. ‘This is only the fifth time the warrior priest has entered battle… in the four hundred and twenty-one years since pilgrim father Jeremiah brought the Church of the Sun here from Rubera. The world feels like it's becoming a smaller place.’

  ‘It surprises me that records don’t document more resistance to new people with new ideas,’ Laurence mused.

  ‘The power of faith and healing, Laurence. Besides which, in this day and age, can you even tell how much of someone’s blood comes from the old country, and how much is from the pale-skinned native tribes?’

  ‘Only if you head far enough north.’

  The warrior priest slapped his visor down and stalked through the basement, mace sweeping about him as he struck the wooden heads of mannequins skulking behind pillars. Wood chips and splinters fell, joining others already littering the floor. Laurence wondered how he felt about all this, but surprisingly he felt nothing in particular. Perhaps this was the best way to be. It was not like he was going to have to kill anyone; the enemy were the already dead. He headed for the stairs, nodding to Ranold as he went.

  The archpriest walked a few steps to the centre of the east wall and stood before the display case positioned under an old painting flanked by oil lamps fixed to the wall. Ranold puzzled at how old paintings like this always seemed to depict people with lifeless, long, drawn faces and mirthless smiles. The picture of pilgrim father Jeremiah was no different. The most life that came out of his painting was from the black tumbling curls of hair on his head. There was no way to be sure the hair shown was real. Early settlers with any wealth had shaved heads and wore wigs until they learned that the colder northern climate kept head lice away. Ranold looked down at the display case, brushed away a layer of dust on the glass and looked at a simple red clay urn. ‘What would you make of all this Jeremiah?’ he asked of the ashes inside. He reached under the display case and picked up a thick black book with worn gold embossed lettering. The title read Philosophies on Life: Church of the Sun. He placed the book on the display case, dug his thumbs in wherever God willed them to go, opened the book flat and read a while. Then the archpriest dipped his chin to his chest and prayed for deliverance from the evil acts of mankind.

  ***

  Suitably inspired, Pragius thought, drumming his fingers on a chimney pot in the star-speckled darkness. It was a sound like stones dropped one by one into a pottery plant pot. He drummed his toes on the roof tiles, which produced a similar sound. Another little freedom he had never had before: the ability to make intricate individual movements with his toe bones that muscles, skin and flesh could never quite master.

  The book still seemed to be a source of knowledge and inspiration, new writing twisting onto the page whenever he felt the book pull on the magic at the edge of his mind.

  With a thought and a word, Pragius sent out his battle sense over the whole of Tranmure. Every chimney pot, roof tile, dark alley, hidden doorway, open window, armed guard, warrior priest and prince general was his to inspect. Somewhere out there, the Archmage of Valendo walked the streets, hidden from even Pragius’ magical senses as surely as Pragius was hidden from his. This was of no consequence since he would surely stick by his dear brother Cory, who was the easiest being in Tranmure for him to locate.

  From his vantage point at the highest part of Tranmure, he could see the floors of rooms through the many open windows. He focused his battle sense into one of these rooms, found the space he needed and fixed his gaze there. With a thought, he commanded the last of his small army to attack. Then he spoke a word, flicked his wrist, and a patch of blue stars appeared in his place on the canvas of night before fading to nothing.

  ***

  ‘Dear God and the holy pilgrim fathers, they’re fast!’ the warrior priest exclaimed, readying his mace and shield.

  ‘You’d better believe it. Zeivite, how many of them are there?’ Cory asked, drawing his sword.

  Zeivite reached out with his
battle sense and quickly replied, ‘All of them.’ He was too concerned with the presence of a lone man foolish enough to be on the streets to give a proper count.

  Twenty guards shuffled nervously behind the trio in Tranmure’s northern market square. It was a strategic meeting of many roads and narrow alleys flanked by overhanging buildings bent over like great grandfathers on walking sticks. Sagging roof lines, dated style and timbers that creaked in the wind betrayed their age. These were the oldest buildings in Tranmure. Few of them remained in Tranmure as fire or redevelopment had taken their brothers over the years. Zeivite’s magical sense revealed to him fearful people within those old, cracked walls.

  The lone man realised the danger he was in and started to run down a narrow alley towards the market square. Zeivite positioned himself at the end of the same alley. The lone man saw the cloaked, foreboding figure enter his personal nightmare and froze in his tracks.

  ‘Keep running!’ Zeivite barked, but the man just yelped. The corner of Zeivite’s mouth twitched in annoyance before he spoke some silvery sounding words then yelled another command, ‘Run to me, then run home and stay there until morning.’

  The man obeyed, moving towards Zeivite. Close on his heels followed a swarm of the skeletal miners wielding hammers and pickaxes. The dark alley suddenly flashed bright, pulsing with the lights of energy bolts that shattered bone. Faces watching from the building windows suddenly vanish. The horde of skeletons rolled in, the hum and pulse of energy bolts quickening as they came. The last of the once-miners erupted no more than an arm’s length from Zeivite’s outstretched arm, coating him in bone dust.

  Taking the centre ground, Cory, the warrior priest and the guards now wielding new maces fought to hold back a tide that tried to force its way into the market square main entrance. Cory sensed with his peripheral vision their guard formation bleed at the edges, die and rise against them. The guards had been warned about the perils of their fallen friends turning against them, but how do you prepare for the reality of having to smash the skull of the man you play cards with, go drinking with and whose children you bounce on your knee after enjoying a Day of the Sun meal cooked by their wife? Cory had even questioned bringing the town guard into the fight at all. ‘Without them we would be overwhelmed in an instant,’ had been Zeivite’s curt reply.