‘Father?’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘It’s a beautiful night. I’m on my way.’
‘Hurry, as fast you can.’
‘The wind is slow, but we will still dock at dawn.’
‘I hope you are dressed appropriately for a journey like this.’
‘You shouldn’t ask a question you won’t like the answer to.’
‘You have taken proper precautions?’
‘That’s a better question to ask, but you know you don’t need to ask it.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘I know.’
She passed the night alone with her thoughts, watching the sea slide by.
Dawn warmed the sky and made the day wake with a satisfied smile. Seagulls squawked their warnings and yearnings as they scoured Halimouth seafront for scraps of fish or detritus from a sailor’s breakfasts they could scavenge. The first moorings at the dark stone docks were overlooked by white painted workshops bearing a nameplate with large red lettering: ‘The Artifex Ship Building Company’. If it were placed in a green field, it might pass as a travelling circus, but those within were hardly clowns and tumblers. Moored outside the dry dock floated their latest creation. The woodwork was bright and clean like a newly minted copper coin.
The young woman’s eye swept over the ship, taking in every detail of the Valour of Valendo. She counted twenty oars raised out of the water on the starboard side. At the prow, a copper-plated battering ram lay just below the waterline. Attached to the deck above, a railed and covered gangplank was secured in a raised position, pointing at the sky. It was designed to be dropped onto the deck of an enemy ship for soldiers to flood aboard during an attack. On the deck of the ship, a mix of sailors and craftsmen checked over every rope and knot, sail and yardarm. At the stern beneath the wheel deck, an opening in the hull allowed a serpent dragon’s head to leap out. It was a beast fashioned from copper and steel, its mouth gaping open. A new and hotly contested innovation on board ship by all accounts, it could produce a fiery breath of burning oil. Its opponents thought it more likely to set fire to the Valour of Valendo itself than an enemy ship, but the device had been tested and there on the dockside the serpent dragon’s older brother watched over Halimouth Bay.
The woman in black moved her attention to the grey city rising up and around the bay, like a mountain range too young to carry the wisdom of the ages and too noisy for the wild goat or Vale eagle. She tried to focus on the central dockyard clock. Its white face was bright under the grey slate hat the clock tower wore, but its hands were not as clear to read. She was yet to hear the crash of the church gong that would mark the hour she was trying to beat. That was the hour that the one man in Halimouth she could trust with her need would arrive at his office. However, watching the clock would not get her onto land any sooner. She closed her eyes and focused on the gull cries and babbling voices around her. The smells of fish, salt and wood. The breeze blowing on the left side of her face. The pace of her breathing and the steady trickle of magic that had been flowing from the bright light at the edge of her mind all night long.
The voices changed, calling out instruction for mooring. She stood straight and performed a languid ballet dancer’s stretch that would inevitably draw a whistle from a lonely sailor or two. But her peace continued. She realigned her hat for her more upright position, scooped up the straps of her backpack and claimed a place on deck at the beginning of the gangplank. The ship bumped to a halt, moorings were secured and the plank dropped, making a bridge to aid her crossing.
As she stepped onto the bridge, the ship’s captain called out, ‘Farewell, Ursula! See you next trip.’ Slipping her arms through the backpack straps, the woman in black turned to wave her goodbye. The ship’s captain had never seen the young woman in black. Her magic showed him Ursula Waterman, the visage of a middle-aged woman with lank, greying hair and a large and slightly bent nose, dressed in a blue weather-stained tent of a dress that fell halfway down wrinkled brown boots. The captain ticked Ursula off his passenger manifest. Someone else who had never seen the woman in black also ticked Ursula Waterman off his list. This man occupied a room at the Fisherman’s Rest tavern that overlooked the docks. He kept watch over who came and went all day, every day. His was one of the dullest jobs in the Kingdom of Nearhon’s scout network. That same man had ticked Quain Marln off the same list many days before and informed those who needed to know that the Silver Warrior was on the move. But Nearhon had no interest in a middle-aged woman with no sense of style trading in jewellery. The woman known as Ursula hurried down the gangplank and checked ten minutes to nine on the dockyard clock. Her sense of urgency made her think of sprinting to her next port of call. She was more than capable of this, frequently outpacing the schoolboys at races. But this would be out of place for Ursula, so she started a brisk walk. She would still reach her destination in time. The shadows of the cobbled alleys rising from Halimouth’s docks swallowed her.
***
Jack, Sam, Jemima, Purdy, Percy, Jason, Felicity, Grace, Timothy, Zack, Tiggy (she was back home visiting; it was lovely to see her) and lastly but mostly the angel at the end, Angela. From the youngest aged four to the oldest aged twenty, he smacked a kiss on each of their foreheads — except his angel, who got a lingering kiss on the lips. Flynn was married to the angel and the rest were their children, although only Purdy, Timothy and Tiggy came from his angel’s belly. The rest — God bless them, because no one else will — were the waifs and strays they had taken in. Flynn himself was the original waif and stray to enter this household, and he had never left. That had everything to do with his angel, the daughter of the first orphanage keeper — God rest her soul. These days Flynn was hardly a waif; he never strayed more than a mile or two from his own front door.
Post-breakfast protocol complete, Flynn hurried out of the door into cobbled streets that offered a view over the tops of buildings and the whole bay of Halimouth. A rich man’s view. A nearby baker standing in front of his shop called out a friendly, ‘Good morning, Flynn.’
Flynn replied, ‘It is a fine one, Matthew.’
Ever-resourceful Flynn had a talent for acquiring the difficult to acquire for the greatly in need, and there was a time, many years ago, when his need for survival meant ‘acquiring’ more than a loaf or two from Matthew. Hunger was a cruel companion that clothed a boy in ribs you could play a tune on if you had the sticks for it. Hunger had been Flynn’s only companion until the angel’s mother and father had taken him in. These days, Flynn acquired exotic sugared fruits from Rubera and sometimes the jungles of Arvail to grace the tops and mixtures of Matthew’s delicious cakes, favoured by the newly wealthy of Halimouth.
Flynn hurried down the hill, brown satchel slung over one shoulder, his mind fixated on breakfast. Second breakfast, that is; the one his angel didn’t know about. He clasped both open hands around his waistline, holding on tight, as he executed his slightly sideways trot down the steep, cobbled street. It was the kind of waistline that left a man a stranger to his own toes and needed its wobble to be contained as he trotted down this hill each day. The second wobbling chin would have to take care of itself. Flynn licked his lips in anticipation of the mug of bean brew drink he would soon hold. He pictured it in his chubby hand, one finger strangled by a wedding ring, while reaching out with the other hand for one of the iced pastries he couldn’t resist. If he picked the right one and grasped it in the right way, he might just win a flake of iced sugar off a neighbouring pastry to lick off his finger. It was the one luxury he allowed himself. His aging clothing was mostly anonymous beiges and browns, although he did stretch to Ruberan cotton — essential for a man prone to copious sweating. The rest of his never-enough income poured into the mouths and onto the backs of the precious young souls under his roof. A roof that sagged and was prone to leaking, but the most pressing problem right now was the fierce salt-laden air attacking the window frames. There was a queue of the newly wealthy
waiting to buy the orphanage out from under them for that rich man’s view. Many times, Flynn and the angel had been on the brink of having to sell and face the agonising choice of which waifs and strays to keep and which to turn loose. The next property they could afford would be so much smaller. That brink was looming again, but Flynn, a man of faith, never let it get to him. God had a way of providing just when they needed it.
Flynn rounded the last corner before the pastry shop. Several times in the last couple of years, that gift from God had arrived in the form of…
Flynn’s way into the pastry shop was barred by a pair of legs crossed over under a blue weather-stained dress. The heels of brown boots were up on a table while their owner sat on a chair with an impish grin on her face. ‘Ursula!’ Flynn exclaimed.
‘My treat,’ the woman that wasn’t really Ursula stated in an insistent, friendly manner, thrusting a wooden cup of bean brew and a paper bag that contained a pastry towards him. Or two, judging by the weight of it as he took the gifts.
Ursula sprang to her feet. Flynn didn’t have time to dwell on the odd posture he’d found Ursula in as she grabbed him by the elbow and started to propel him along the street. ‘Walk with me — faster.’
‘This isn’t walking, Ursula,’ Flynn complained, not knowing how to control bean brew cup, wobbling waistline and feet over an uneven cobbled surface all at the same time.
‘Sorry, but I’m in a rush.’
After a short trot, they arrived at a modest well-maintained rented office. A sign with green lettering above the door read ‘The Cargo Master of Halimouth’. A bold claim none of his customers would disagree with. Flynn looked around on the ground for somewhere to deposit his gifts.
‘Oh never mind that, where are the keys?’ she urged.
‘Left trouser pocket, but — Ursula!’
Flynn flushed as she plunged a hand into his pocket and brought out his bunch of keys, quickly selecting the correct key and unlocking the door. She’d seen the key the last time she watched him unlock the door. She waited impatiently by the open door. Flynn ambled into the office and set down his second breakfast on an old, dark wooden table that had collected layers of varnish the way a tree collects rings. He unhitched the satchel, dumping it next to the breakfast, then rolled himself around the corners of the table into a high-backed leather chair. The walls were covered with maps of the Valendo, Emiria, Rubera and Arvail coastlines. The largest map took in all coastlines and was marked with multi-coloured lines joining the cities across the sea like some wise old spider’s web. Ursula paid no attention to the maps; she’d seen them before. She jiggled on the spot as Flynn sunk his teeth into the first pastry pulled out of the paper bag. He frowned, thinking how much Ursula’s performance reminded him of how Tiggy used to jig when she was a little younger and not getting her way fast enough. Or at all.
‘So what’s…’ He paused to retrieve a flake of iced sugar off his top lip with his tongue. ‘What’s up?’
She paused thoughtfully a moment. ‘How do I get to Tranmure as fast as possible?’
‘What’s the cargo?’
‘Me.’
‘What? No rare sapphires, delightful diamonds, stashes of silver or possibly narcotic dried herbs?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘Nearhon horse relay. A man I know has some of the Plain horses, but I can’t organise that instantly. I take it you want to leave now?’
She nodded.
‘Well, if you don’t sleep, take a break every two hours for food and water you could make it on a Vale horse in twenty-four hours or so.’
‘Anything quicker?’
Flynn looked at the bent-nosed woman considering the question a moment before replying, with a shrug, ‘Well, I suppose you could transport yourself there instantly if you were a mage.’
Ursula winced as if Flynn had just pricked her finger with a sewing needle. ‘Regrettably beyond my talents,’ she said.
‘I’ve only got my horse available right now. How long to you need him for?’
‘I’m not sure. Couldn’t I just buy it from you?’
Flynn hesitated. He rarely rode, and never enjoyed it when he did. Nevertheless, he had a soft spot for the animal.
‘Flynn, I’m desperate. Your life might depend on this, and I can pay well.’ A purse of coins chunked onto the table, enforcing her point.
Flynn paused, the remains of a pastry halfway to his mouth. ‘Since I’m sure you’re not threatening me, I’ll assume I’m better off not asking why my life depends on it. You know, if you’re this desperate, just for you, I’d give you the horse. But I need the money for the orphanage.’
‘I know. I can do the arithmetic, and it’s been four months since my last visit. Take the money, Flynn.’
Flynn put down the pastry, took a sheet of paper, quill and ink pot off a shelf behind him and signed a note, which he slid across the table. ‘Take it to the stables on the road behind this office.’
Ursula looked at the note now in her hand. ‘Have you given the horse a name?’
‘Never got around to it. Perhaps you should call him Lucky — Lucky he doesn’t have to carry me anymore!’ Flynn winked.
Ursula smiled and made her way behind the desk, tucking the note into the belt of her dress. She gently grabbed a generous portion of cheek in each hand and looked an increasingly flustered Flynn in the eye up close. ‘You’re a beautiful human being, Flynn.’ She kissed him on the forehead.
‘Yes. Well, you are too, Ursula.’ Though not nearly as pretty as my angel, he thought privately. He watched Ursula turn and almost leap out of his office, flashing him a smile as she looked back. There was something odd about her. He pondered over a woman who possessed wealth, judging by the money purses that had fallen on his desk in the last two years, yet seemed to use none of it for her own clothes and boots. He pondered over the soft, slim feeling of her fingers on his cheeks compared to the aging, dry hands he could see, and the softer-than-expected feeling of the lips fading from his forehead. Ursula, he decided, was simply the wrong shape and texture to fit inside her own skin.
A man could go mad thinking such things. Since he wasn’t one to dwell on the maddening, he took a gulp of his bean brew and turned his attention to the problem of acquiring more silk.
***
The woman in black leaned low in the saddle, cantering the horse through day and night bound for Dendra Castle. Petra Quarntaker, daughter to the Archmage of Valendo, had been to Halimouth many times, but no one there had ever seen her.
******
Dedication
In loving memory of John Donald Laurence Hilder (Dad), a gentleman and the kind of warrior who never carried a sword.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading the first part of The General’s Legacy. I do hope you read the concluding part of this story, Whiteland King soon. Dividing what is a single story into two parts was a hard decision to make. Ultimately, I took the advice that it is simply too large and too expensive as a single book (especially in paperback form) for the market to take a chance on for a new author. A story will be as long as it needs to be — shortening The General’s Legacy was out of the question. There are other establilshed authors who have divided their large debut books from years ago into two or more books for todays market.
The best way to keep informed about my future book releases is to sign up for my email newsletter at adrianhilder.com and follow the “Newsletter” menu link. New subscribers using the “Get My Free Book” option on the website home page get a free eBook copy of The General’s Legacy – Part One: Inheritance as a gift and more information about how to connect with me over the course of a few emails. Please pass this on to any friends and family you think would enjoy this story.
Writing a fantasy fiction story is an ambition I’ve had since 1988 when I was seventeen years old and first thought of the character Prince Cory. It was not until October 2013 I sta
rted seriously writing. It has been the most exciting, longest and hardest project I have ever undertaken. I would love for this story to find a wider audience. If you have enjoyed the story so far you can make a big difference to the success of The General’s Legacy books and my future prospects for publishing more stories. Unlike big publishers, I don’t have the contacts to have famous authors write editorial reviews for my books. I don’t have the financial resources to run full page ads in newspapers or put posters on the subway. But I do have something more powerful and effective – readers who have enjoyed this story and were prepared to spend a few minutes writing an honest review on their favourite book sales site. I just don’t have not enough of these reviews so far and there is no such thing as too many.
Honest reviews help bring my books to the attention of others and provide vital social proof that what I have to offer is worth spending the time reading. A review, even a short one, that says something about why you enjoyed the book is worth every bit as much as an editorial review from well know author.
I would be very grateful if you could spend just a few minutes leaving a review on the book’s sales page. You can jump right to the page for your favourite store and country with the link below.
The General’s Legacy – Part One: Inheritance
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my book!
Sincerely,
Adrian G Hilder
October 2016
Acknowledgements
This book would never have been published without the efforts and support of a number of people. Thanks go to my wife, Sarah, for understanding my need to finally write the story that has been brewing in my head for twenty-six years (far too long). Thank you to my sons for their enthusiasm for what their dad was doing. My thanks also go to Sarah for exercising her geography and cartography skills to produce the Map of Valendo, Nearhon and Emirian.
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