The General's Legacy - Part One: Inheritance

by Adrian G Hilder

  ‘No, I didn’t mean the song, I meant the situation. Why launch an attack on our kingdom and throw too small a force into the venture to succeed and then just disappear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Zeivite snapped, ‘probably to draw us out, test our defences and see what we would put in the field that they have not discovered through their scout network, before determining how and when to attack properly. If that satisfies you, perhaps you will go to sleep!’

  Cory was silent.

  Zeivite closed his eyes and tried to relax. His mind refused to sleep and grasped the problem Cory posed and took it into in his memory palace. It was a place in his mind where details of past battles lay behind imagined red doors. He plunged through some of the doors and relived the battles. He turned the problem around and looked at it from the enemy’s point of view and tried to come up with a different answer to the one he had instinctively jumped on.

  He failed.

  Snapping his eyes open wide, he stole a sudden breath. ‘Wake up!’ he barked.

  Chapter 12

  Breaking Camp

  The Occupation of Norvale 1851.

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

  Deaths: 0 — Norvale abandoned before the attack.

  Kingdom Army of Nearhon led by General Magnar.

  Deaths: 0 — Norvale occupied.

  — Excerpt from the War Histories of Valendo

  Pragius had spent the afternoon hidden by magic, watching hundreds of men and their little white soul flames inside them building the military encampment. He contemplated the folly of feeding upon them. With so many, the risk of sheer numbers making it beyond even his power to beat them seemed possible, and the already dead were no use to feed on.

  The book pulled on the magic at the edge of his mind as he wandered to the far side of the lake. Removing the book from its leather bag, he opened it. Perhaps a dark magic would be revealed that might bring down an entire army, or maybe a cursed charm that would turn comrades against each other. But then again, as master of the dead he already had a way to do that. Coalescing symbols spelled out where he should go, where he should look, and told him that something had been prepared for him.

  He walked for a time he didn’t measure, but the sun was low in the sky by the time he stood in the wet mist at the foot of the waterfall near Dendra Castle. Now he knew where he was and found the steep stairs that led up the cliff over which the waterfall roared. His bony feet slipped and scrambled on the smooth stones of the damp stairs. Halfway up, he almost pitched forwards onto his face, his left foot refusing to support his weight. He leaned on the cliff face and lifted his left leg, bending it across his knee to find a small stone had caught between the bones of his foot, causing his big toe to stick up at an angle. He dug it out with a forefinger, stood and looked up the stairs, seeing many more small stones in his path. No shoes, no known magic to create shoes from nothing. He spoke a few sounds and directed his right hand towards the ground. The small stones were sucked by an unseen force from the steps and fell into the plunge pool below. Pragius continued winding his way up the stairs by the twisting white rush of water until he was faced with a barrier that stopped every visitor. A horizontal blast of white water leapt out of one tunnel into another. He opened the book again and the instructions were, for once, quite clear. Slowly stepping forwards, the boundary of his ever-present shield touched on the torrent that had the power to eat through rock given time. The water jet violently twitched, deflecting around the spherical shield. Pragius strode on, the water exploding in all directions, sending spray high into the air and out over the cliff. For a moment, he was enclosed in white water, violently determined to pound its way through his shield. Then he broke through the blast, found a step up and the water closed behind, sealing him in a dark, damp tunnel. The water’s roar rushed up the tunnel in an infinite hollow echo.

  Pragius peered into the darkness towards two flickering white lights hanging like giant pulsing stars in the night sky. He uttered a few sounds and his vision changed. The scene around him came alive, edged in a fierce violet light revealing all the detail but none of its true colour. The long tunnel, carved by water in ages past, extended away in front of him and then swept upwards. There were bones piled high lining one side of the tunnel. As he walked closer, he recognised complete skeletons. They lay one upon another as if someone had stacked them as cargo in a ship's hold. Pragius swept his battle sense over them and quickly counted two hundred. He looked up at two others that eluded his magical senses, but he could see with his eyes. The pair were standing guard in the tunnel, and it was from there that the flickering lights appeared caged behind their ribs. The flickering came from a writhing, balled up blanket of white light bound by ropes of black smoke — an enslaved soul. The two soul-bound skeletal warriors appeared as twins, each carrying a dark shield and a serrated edged long sword. There were other weapons in the tunnel. Two hundred poniard swords lined up against one wall like oversized sewing needles. Pragius contemplated the potential of this small force, imagining it swiftly and silently falling upon the army encampment, spreading death and with him creating new followers out of the fallen. Is this really the plan? he wondered.

  Pragius looked down at the book as it pulled at the magic in his mind and the decision was made. Something else caught his attention. The smooth floor had the odd ripple and bump scratched out in violet by his vision, but beneath his feet, he saw other markings that water could not have crafted. He was standing in a segment of a circle split into four equal parts carved into the stone floor. Where the lines crossed, a small stone set within another sat snug in a socket cut into the floor. Pragius bent down and toyed with the stones with the bony index finger of his right hand. A pulling on his mind from the book made him stand again. He inspected the skeletons stacked in the tunnel before beginning an incantation of rumbling sounds. Rise, he thought.

  A bone man from the top of the pile jerked into action like a marionette, untangling its arms, propping itself up and scrabbling free of the stack. Pragius watched it slide down and right itself on the tunnel floor. It stood straight and walked with the halting stiffness of a drunkard sobering up on the morning after. It strutted down the tunnel, stooping to collect a poniard sword without breaking its pace. Pragius thought commands and the others followed the example of the first, mimicking almost perfectly its every move. The tunnel filled fast with a crowd of grinning bone figures of varying height and stature. Follow me, Pragius thought.

  He moved to the tunnel opening blocked by the rush of water. Pausing a moment, he pondered what he should do to release his new followers from the cave. There must be a reason his battle sense missed the two armed figures with the light in their ribcage. He commanded them to approach and they came with serrated swords and shields held at ease by their sides. Pragius tilted his head in curiosity, bringing one of them forward, directing it to slowly approach the water. The blast twitched and bowed around an invisible sphere centred on the figure. It stepped through, droplets spraying into the tunnel as it went. Pragius followed and stood outside the tunnel. A short while later, he had the pair positioned so their magical shields deflected the blast of water over the entrance to the hidden tunnel. A steady procession of skeletal warriors started to file out of the tunnel, holding swords in their fists, tips pointing up to the night sky. There were no clouds, but a deluge of water droplets fell and battered the stone ground about their feet.

  ***

  Cory yawned as he stood close to Zeivite on the crest of a defensive embankment. Crickets played a chirping concert in the grass below. ‘Isn’t there a way to do this without me standing here in my armour all night long?’ asked Cory.

  ‘It makes the most sense,’ Zeivite replied from his sitting position.

  ‘I’m not sure the night watch agrees…’ Cory said, observing the camp guards watching him.

  ‘Some kind of attack on the first night,’ said Zeivite. />
  He reached deep into the darkness with his battle sense, out to the east and the mines, south down the valley, north towards Dendra Castle and then all over Tranmure. The church’s gong pulsed three slow beats into the night air, the sound like gentle ocean waves caressing a pebble beach. Cory slumped into an uncomfortable sitting position and stared at his mail gauntlets, unable to rub tired eyes. ‘When do we get to sleep?’ he asked, shifting his gaze to the lake.

  ‘After dawn. When others can see far enough to find trouble before it finds us.’

  Cory sighed. ‘It never said, in any of the history books I’ve read, “and then the general stayed up all night on watch”.’

  ‘There are a lot of things the history books never say,’ Zeivite replied.

  A while later, Cory stood and looked around. The camp guards were no longer watching them. He could see two of them feeding the fires more wood. The spit and crackle carried over the tents, their sides undulating lazily in the air currents. Cory sat and tried to focus on the stars reflected on the surface of the lake. He tilted his head and attempted to imagine a group of six stars he was looking at in mirror image taking on the form of pilgrim father Jeramiah’s horse. He couldn’t remember its name. Persicuse… Persicuous… or something similar. Pragius knew all the star constellations. If he were here, he would be standing with his arm around Cory’s shoulder, pointing to the sky and telling him all their stories. Cory drew a deep breath and sighed, trying to expel a sudden sadness that had risen inside him. He stood again.

  The church gong sounded four beats. Zeivite sprang out of a faraway stare and to his feet, reached into the sky with one hand muttering sounds. A globe of blinding white light shot upwards and hovered over the encampment like a second full moon illuminating all. Then the mage pointed a finger sending three white sparks into the air, each disappearing with a flash and a bang like thunder in miniature. Horses shrieked, bucked and herded around their coral.

  ***

  Quain’s eyes opened as he leapt up from his sleeping pallet and immediately started to buckle on armour. ‘Greg, go out and see what’s going on. Find out if I’ve got time to do this. Up, Squire John, help me on with this armour. This is what I hired you for. And don’t touch the sword.’

  Greg rose, eyes half closed, and pulled back his hair and tied it with a leather lace, missing several strands he ignored as he staggered out of the tent. Greg thought for the briefest moment the morning was well underway before he noticed the alien white moon. ‘I can’t see anything coming. Men are looking out the tents, wondering what’s going on, I think.’

  ‘Sun’s light! Get ready, get out there, get the other commanders, get the men armed, armoured and get them into formation. John, when we’re done here, get all our horses ready.’

  ***

  Junaid sat at the head of his cavalry formation on a black and white patch stallion looking back, pleased with the speed with which the horsemen had formed up.

  ‘That’s how it’s done, boys,’ he muttered, turning to watch a scatter of foot soldiers form up outside the banked defences. He urged his horse into a walk and led the column forward until it came level with Cory, Zeivite and Quain. They were looking up the valley, deep in discussion. ‘What ghosts have got the battle mage spooked now?’ he asked himself, squinting and trying to see what was beyond the lake. There was nothing but the blackness of the night until another bright alien moon shot up, casting its white light over and beyond the lake. Junaid saw them, standing like frail marble statues placed in a lakeside garden without regard for artistic appeal or order. ‘There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of them,’ Junaid said to his second. ‘A quick cavalry charge will run most of them down. What are they waiting for?’

  He turned to watch the three men as Theo, Archie, Greg and the warrior priest appeared from between the tents to join them on the embankment. Four more contributing to the continuing indecision. ‘Good of them to invite me to the briefing,’ he muttered to himself. Junaid looked behind him; thousands of soldiers were now forming up behind his cavalry. He released a sigh of frustration, facing forward again. ‘Is it just me, or do you feel like we’re all that’s left of the old command?’

  ‘It does feel a little that way, sir,’ his second replied.

  ‘Listen up, men,’ Junaid roared back down the line. ‘We will finish this fast. Lances lowered and spread six abreast. Pass it back.’

  ‘You sure about this, sir?’

  ‘Someone’s got to do something or we’ll still be here at dawn. Are we the only heroes of Valendo brave enough to smash the enemy where they stand?’ Junaid slapped down his visor, lowered his lance, clamped his legs to the saddle and the horse launched itself forward. He grinned beneath his visor. The old queen and kings would be smiling down at him from their seats in heaven. One day Junaid would join them there, his own throne reserved. They would welcome him with slaps on the back and great stories of old, and they would thank him for his protection of their descendants.

  The cavalry formation stretched away from the front, their glorious fate drawing them on, pouring them around the lake like the finest ale from a serving jug. Lances were brought low, ready to bear down on the enemy. Riders at the back of the galloping formation waved swords that glinted in the night. The alien moonlight stole the image of the patchwork horses’ bodies and their riders and spread it over the faintly dimpled lake surface, immortalised in reflection on an unfaithful temporary canvas. It was an image that could be distorted by the gentlest breath of wind or the faintest shadow of a doubt that came from anywhere but the cavalry commander's mind. He could see the distance to his enemy closing, but not the hot breath snorting from the horse’s nose, or a pair of skeletal hands lost in the forest of bone men and thrusting into the sky. Mage fire followed.

  The scene reflected on the lake’s surface was swept away in glittering, billowing and dancing oranges and yellows. Junaid saw no more; the sudden bright light pained his eyes, adjusted to the dark as they were. He gripped harder on the saddle to remain on his bucking horse. There was screaming all around and the smell of burning hair. His feet stung with a hot pain that rushed up his legs. More screaming, so much louder this time. It came from his own throat.

  Forgetting what it felt like to not be in agony, he opened his eyes to search for an escape route. A blinding yellow light hit him and everything went black, his eyes shrivelling in the flame. He sucked in a lethal, fiery breath that sent his soul fleeing from its burning body. The horses shrieked, regained a mind of their own and dashed anywhere that was away from the burning ground. They bucked and pranced, but wherever they tried to flee more blistering yellow pain spread and followed them under hoof. Five horses leapt from the fires into the lake and heaved through the cooling waters back the way they had come. The rest lay in the fire to die, their minds and muscles unable to do any more to escape.

  Cory watched each horse and rider fall, like burning tangles of sticks. He stared, transfixed by the flames and the horror of mage fire he had only ever imagined while plotting war games at the castle briefing room table. The realisation that the cavalry was lost seeped into his mind, but lurking behind that horror was another far worse. Cory thought his eyes played tricks on him, his imagination running wild. Did one of the horses move again? Did a head rise and then go back down to rest? He focused on the flames. As if waking from sleep, the tangles of sticks unravelled and propped themselves up, once again taking the structures and shapes of riders on horses. They stood in the bath of raging fires, silhouetted against the backdrop of flames with the fire cleansing them of burdensome flesh. The lances were ash on the ground. The new undead cavalry drew swords and the herd turned about in unison without regard for who the leaders once were. The only leader that counted now rode no horse.

  The fires abated as they trod the path back around the lake, smoke rising from smouldering remnants of muscle and tendon. The treading turned to a canter, which became a galloping horde armed with swords
that no longer gleamed, whipping around the flanks of blackened equine ribcages that oozed with the greasy remains of unburnt organs. Tongues of flame still licked at the bones and smoke streamed behind like long pennants caught in a stiff breeze.

  Greg, Theo and Archie sprinted through the camp. They cried orders into the night air that were lost like autumn leaves carried on storm winds, already dry, brittle and empty of meaning. The tents furled in a gentle breeze, mindless to the unfolding events. Greg’s feet smashed the glowing embers of a campfire into sparks as he ran, still calling out. Soldiers braced themselves to receive the grimacing cavalry charge as if some inspirational plan would rain down on them at any moment. The hard bone of skeletal horses galloping with unholy speed cut into them like a ship’s prow through the water. Iron shod hooves and dull swords snatched away life like sea spray taken on the winds. A bow wave of the undead rose up and pushed back into the yielding sea of the living.

  ‘Commander Junaid,’ Cory gasped, ‘was unhappy with us in command. Overheard them talking. Didn’t think he’d do this.’

  ‘Would have been helpful if our battle plan lasted as long as the first contact with the enemy,’ Quain replied, frowning. ‘We need to get the men out of the open and into the streets — somehow get the king to the castle. Look, they are on the move now.’

  He pointed to the marble white figures as they shuffled into an orderly rectangle formation. Their march was brisk and perfectly synchronised with pin-like swords pointing skywards and shining in the light of the alien moon. They came down the road on the opposite side of the lake from the doomed cavalry, heading towards the church. The five surviving cavalrymen urged their mounts up out of their wade through the lake to relative safety. The men’s eyes rolled almost as wildly as the horses they rode, their heads turning left and right looking for the next source of terror.