The Amber Legacy (22 page)

The Rebel knight bore down on the Warmaster of the Queen’s army without slackening pace. Meg anticipated one would give way, more likely Kingsman given the rider’s mad pace, but as the horse thundered forward Kingsman merely waited. At the last instant, he sidestepped, swung his axe, and buried its blade into the charging steed’s chest. The impact threw the Warmaster aside like a rag doll. The mortally wounded horse cartwheeled, launching the blue knight into the
air. He spun and landed in an ungainly heap several paces further on. The grey horse, its chest shattered by Kingsman’s axe, kicked and thrashed on the ground. Kingsman was also writhing in agony, clutching his right arm, the elbow bent and twisted at a distressing angle. The blue knight was motionless.

Meg stared at the scene in shock. Her dream didn’t end like this. Where was Treasure? Or had she come too late? Had the blue knight already slain the man she loved? She stared, and her tears welled. A knot of soldiers ran towards Warmaster Kingsman, determined to rescue their fallen leader before the Rebels reached him. A second group warily surrounded the prostrate blue knight. She wondered if Treasure was in that group. What if the rider wasn’t dead?

A new war horn bellowed from the Rebel ranks. War drums thundered into brutal rhythm and the whole army charged, a sea of green forging across the meadow in the brightening sunlight. Meg was momentarily distracted, but when she turned back, the fallen rider had already risen. A soldier reeled, clutching his face. A second fell from a fatal thrust. The knight in blue armour drove the rest back with his ferocity, hacking at them with his sword, before he plunged into the group protecting Kingsman. Another soldier staggered away, mortally wounded. Meg panicked. Treasure had to be down there. She dropped her sword and sprinted towards the melee, pushing blindly through the ranks preparing to meet the full Rebel onslaught.

As she stumbled into the space where the blue knight was fighting for his life, she saw him cut down two more soldiers and behead Kingsman with a brutal sweep of his sword. The space was overwhelmed as the waves of opposing soldiers clashed in full battle, and Meg lost her quarry. She scrambled through a press of cavalry, desperately searching the fallen soldiers for one
that might be Treasure, and narrowly avoided impalement on a spear. A Rebel horseman knocked her to the ground with a kick of his boot, and for several confusing moments she crawled between legs, and over dying men, before she regained her feet. She screamed as a blade sliced her arm, but her attacker was gone when she turned. A young man fell in front of her with an open gash across his forehead. The deafening battle noise terrified her.

Then she saw the knight in blue armour. She pulled her dagger from its scabbard, and pushed through the throng, but he disappeared in the melee. A wounded Rebel grabbed her ankle, so she frantically hacked at his grasping hand with the dagger. Warm blood oozed along her arm and she was repulsed by what she’d done. She sighted her target twice more, but each time he vanished before she reached him. The chase was frustrating, fruitless, but the dream drove her. Treasure’s nemesis was hunting him, and only she could save him—only she could change the outcome.

An unexpected push from behind sent her sprawling into the churned earth. She coughed and rolled onto her back, dagger raised defensively, and discovered that two of the Queen’s soldiers were fighting for their lives against the Rebel in blue armour. Although her back stung viciously, she clambered to her feet. She had to stop him. She lunged at the blue knight from the side with her dagger, but her move was slow and clumsy, and her target anticipated it. He caught her a sharp blow across the bridge of the nose with his elbow, and she fell to the ground, spots spinning across her eyes from the shooting pain, blood gushing from her nose. The Queen’s soldiers dodged and weaved, striking solid blows, but the knight’s blue armour was unscathed. One soldier collapsed, stabbed through the groin. The second Queen’s soldier cleverly evaded his
opponent’s vicious thrusts and sweeps, until the Rebel feinted high and struck low. The young soldier screamed as the knight’s sword split his mail jerkin and ripped out his guts. As he fell to his knees, the blue knight kicked him over and dropped his broken sword on the dying man. He unhitched a war-axe from his belt, twirled it arrogantly, and turned to fight a new opponent.

Resolving her courage, Meg rose and circled in the blue knight’s wake. When he was off-guard, hacking down another hapless opponent, she charged again, stabbing at his chest, but her blade slid harmlessly across the polished blue metal. In a futile bid to knock him off balance, she grappled with him, but he effortlessly broke her hold, this time punching her on the side of her helmet. As she reeled, he swung his axe, but his aim was high. The blade caught her helmet’s lip, swept it away, and gouged a shallow chunk of skin and hair from the left side of her head. She collapsed. Through a mist of pain, blood, and blurred vision, she saw the blue knight swing his axe high to strike the deathblow and she waited for it to fall—but he turned away.
The dream holds true
, she thought.
He isn’t fated to kill me. Only Treasure.
Spurred by her belief in the dream’s power, she scrounged through the battle detritus for her dagger and found it under a bloodied arm. Her head stung. Her back stung. Sticky blood oozed down her cheek and neck. For all she knew, she could already be dying. But she rose one more time, intent on her target.

She stepped over a corpse, and circled behind the blue warrior who was effortlessly fending off the concerted attack of three opponents. Gripped by a sudden urge, she reached inside her corslet and touched the amber crystal. ‘I hope your advice is good, Emma,’ she whispered. She took a deep breath. She had one
chance only. With a throaty cry, she went to leap heroically onto his back, but her leading foot caught a dying man’s leg, and she sprawled foolishly at her target’s heels. He glanced down, and stepped over her, but as he did she buried her dagger to the hilt into the back of his knee joint. He jerked, staggered, turned, and kicked her in the ribs viciously, thumping the breath from her body. A rush of darkness numbed her pain.

B
lue sky. Grey clouds. She blinked. A weight pinned her. Her head throbbed. She blinked again and turned her head. An armoured arm dangled across her shoulder. The weight on her chest was a corpse. Smoke drifted across her vision. She remembered. She was on a battlefield. She listened. The noise of fighting seemed muted and far away. With great effort, she levered the corpse off her chest, and sat up. When she put her hand to her left temple and drew it away there was blood on her fingers. The meadow was littered with bodies. Spears and arrows and a variety of weapons stuck at angles from the earth and bodies. Riderless horses waited patiently for their dead riders to remount. People moved among the bodies, searching for wounded, carrying heavy sacks, furtively looting the dead.

‘You surprised me, girl,’ a gruff voice said. ‘Thought you were dead.’ She turned and rose sharply, but her reaction made her head pound harder and she sank to her knees. She squinted up at an older man astride a bay stallion, dressed in silver plate armour, his hair and beard heavily streaked with grey. A foot soldier, bearing a black banner with a
gold serpent insignia, stood dutifully beside the horse. ‘Didn’t know we had young girls in the army,’ the old knight said, and chuckled. ‘Doubt it fits regulations. But you served the Queen’s army well enough for the best of men today, my girl. No one else could bring him down.’ He indicated the object of his comment with a cursory nod.

She followed his gaze to the corpse of the blue knight. Three metal spears jutted from his battered breastplate. On the ground, among the other corpses, her enemy no longer seemed large and powerful. She felt a sudden rush of shame and wonder for what she’d done. Yet she’d only acted to save her love. She’d beaten the dream’s prophecy. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

‘Was,’ the knight corrected. ‘No
is
anymore.’ He paused, while his horse shifted its weight, and said, ‘He was the eyes and ears of Lord Future’s Rebels, that one—a formidable young knight who was once even the darling of Queen Sunset. They said the Rebel Seers enchanted his armour so that no mortal hand could harm him—although you certainly put that tale to the lie. He was probably the best spy in the kingdom—scouted out information like it was his natural role. Used to be a fair ladies’ man before he lost favour in the Royal Court and joined Future’s little fiasco. That, my young warrior girl, was Marchlord Treasure Overbrook.’

A cold chill touched Meg’s heart. She remained kneeling, but she no longer heard whatever the old knight went on to say, and she didn’t acknowledge his farewell as he and his servant headed away to enjoy the dying moments of Future’s defeat. Only when they were long gone, and she was alone, did she crawl to the corpse.

Her dagger handle protruded from behind the blue knight’s knee. Congealed blood blackened the hilt and wound, and flies swarmed over it. The blue metal chest-plate was puckered and warped by the three iron spears, and there were signs that many other weapons had battered viciously against the metal. The man’s death had been violent. Here, finally, lay the nemesis of her dreams, but she could not move, because morbid fear froze her hands. She stared into the faces of the dead piled around the blue knight, searching in hope and fear for Treasure’s face, but he wasn’t among them. Her hope rose. And her fear returned like an arrow in her chest. She reached for the blue knight’s dented helmet and hinged back the visor.

The corpse’s eyes glared at her out of the cold, vacant distance of death with empty eyes—one blue, one grey: Treasure’s eyes. She stared in disbelief, in shock. Treasure’s eyes—exactly as she remembered from the dream. His axe never fell when her helmet came loose—could not fall. She understood, now, why. She also understood why Treasure had been so secretive about his part in the war while he was in Summerbrook—why he was never seen with the Queen’s army. Shock seeping through her core, she stared down at her own soldier’s garments, and understood the twisted truth of her dream. The tears welled. Her body shook. Strength ebbing, she collapsed and sobbed with grief and despair into the damp earth.

She lost sense of time, wandering the battlefield. The looters skirted her when she came near, but she hardly noticed them. A black and tan dog guarding a body growled, so she veered around it, wondering at the magnitude of a dog’s loyalty. She stopped at the corpse
of a grey horse, its chest split open, and knew she was looking at Nightwind. Treasure had stolen her horse the morning that he left Summerbrook. Of course, Nightwind wasn’t her horse at all, just the mount of a dead soldier she had buried in the hills above Summerbrook. She felt it should be raining, and dark, mirroring the scene on the crushed and trampled and blood-soaked meadow, but the blue sky seemed to be smiling on the carnage.

She shed her chain mail because it was too heavy, too cumbersome, and she’d finished playing soldiers, but she was surprised that the back came apart in two halves. She remembered being hit across the back by the blue knight—by Treasure. The corslet saved her life. It saved her life so that she could kill her lover. She dropped the corslet and wandered on, sensing from the cool touch of the air that her back was exposed.
The tunic is torn
, she thought, but she went on aimlessly, weaving across the battlefield, heading towards the forest.

Dark stains marred the Seers’ blue robes. The first Seer was lying on his side, curled as if he was asleep, except for his open-mouthed grimace. Three arrows jutted from his back and one from his side. His grey hair was long and straggly, and he reminded her of Samuel. Around his neck was a gold chain. A gold ring adorned the middle finger of his right hand. She crossed to the second corpse and found what appeared to be a younger man, face down, his long brown hair swirling across his shoulders, a solitary arrow buried through the hair into the base of his neck. She bent to touch the soft fabric of the dead man’s robe, and wondered at its almost liquid quality. This person had conjured magic, magic that had protected Treasure in his blue armour from a host of arrows. But magic had not saved him from a single arrow.

‘Hey! You! Get away from there!’

She heard the warning, but she stayed, kneeling by the dead Seer. Suddenly there were men around her and someone grabbed her arms. A soldier stared at her, dark eyes glaring under a heavy set of equally dark eyebrows. ‘One of the Rebels’ whores,’ he said scornfully. ‘Take her away with the rest of them.’

She sat at the edge of the large group of prisoners, silently staring at the earth, ignoring the murmured conversations. She felt the presence of guards, but she didn’t look up. She’d let the soldiers lead her from the battlefield, and when they tied her hands behind her back and pushed her to the ground she sank submissively. No one acknowledged her and she didn’t care. Only when she felt the need to piss did she decide to rise, but a heavy hand pushed her to the ground, and a harsh voice snarled, ‘Down, you Rebel bitch!’

She looked up at the soldier who stood over her. ‘I need to piss.’

‘Piss in your pants,’ he replied.

So she sat, holding her water, staring at the earth. When she couldn’t hold it any longer, she sighed resignedly and relaxed, the temporary warmth a pleasure against the cold ground. She didn’t care any longer. Treasure was dead. She’d killed him. It didn’t matter any more if she lived or died. Nothing mattered.

Later, when the day was past midday and the sky shadowed by grey clouds, someone prodded her to her feet. She rose with the other prisoners, and moved forward. ‘Don’t do anything stupid!’ someone yelled. ‘You try to run, we’ll cut you down! Your lives are the property of Her Majesty now! Prince Future is already on his way to hang! You’ve nothing left to fight for!’
Meg lifted her head to learn that her bound cohort was being marched between the assembled ranks of the Queen’s army, the victorious soldiers watching the procession of defeated Rebels with grubby, battle-worn faces that shifted between faint curiosity and mild disinterest. She knew that she was in the wrong place, that all she had to do was tell someone she was not a Rebel, but she didn’t care. What did it matter? She trudged on, dropping her eyes to the heels of the man ahead of her, noting how his bare feet were dirty and his left calf bloodied.

She was surprised when a guard grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, using his spear to force her to lift her chin. His expression was stern. ‘Well?’ he asked.

‘That’s her.’

The guard lowered his spear and pulled her out of the line of prisoners, and started cutting her bonds.

‘How in Jarudha’s name did you end up among the prisoners?’ Blade stood before her with an inquisitive and bemused expression. He took her arm gently, saying, ‘Let’s get you something to wear and cleaned up.’

She shifted uncomfortably under the men’s gazes, wishing that she’d stayed with the prisoners. The fresh blue tunic, grey vest and dark brown trousers Blade provided were all too big, but she was grateful to be out of her battle-torn clothes. She washed her face in a bucket of cold water inside Blade’s tent, to ease away the congealed blood on her left temple and scalp, and when she felt no pain, no discomfort at all, she wondered how severe her head wound really was if she had no feeling there. She would have liked to have checked and cleaned her back, because there was congealed blood on the torn tunic, but she couldn’t
reach it. She hoped the fresh clothes wouldn’t be ruined. Because she had no pain in her back, she surmised the wound was superficial because of the chain mail’s protection.

She would have happily remained in the tent, but Blade drew her out. ‘It doesn’t matter now if anyone knows that you’re a woman. This battle finished the war. All that’s left is cleaning up pockets of resistance around the country, and most of the Rebels will capitulate now that Future is captured. Come and eat. There’ll be singing and celebration tonight. You don’t want to miss that.’

The men were stunned to see that Red was a young and very attractive woman, even with her red hair shorn. ‘Yes, my gaping friends, you’re looking at a woman,’ Blade confirmed, grinning at their wonder. ‘And she stood with you on the battlefield today, so you will give her the respect due any brave soldier in the Queen’s army.’ Despite the smiles, and quiet laughter, and nods of agreement, the eyes were riveted on her. She felt more vulnerable after Blade tapped a soldier on the shoulder and left the gathering.

‘So why is a pretty thing like you pretending to be one of the boys?’ a soldier asked.

‘I was looking for someone,’ she mumbled.

‘Husband?’

She shook her head.

‘Leave her alone,’ said a young man with a thin black beard and sad eyes.

‘We should be getting ready for the celebration,’ said another. He approached, and said, ‘My name’s Long Hillside.’

‘Meg,’ she replied. ‘Meg Farmer.’

Long smiled and introduced the others. ‘Axe Woodcutter. River Bentknee. Bow Shaftmaker.’ Meg nodded to each, knowing she wouldn’t remember so
many names. Some wore bandages, and they all had cuts and bruises from the battle. All of them would have been on the front line in the morning. They would have known Nails Carpenter whom she saw die in the first clash. She wondered how many others were dead from Blade’s Group. There were barely fifteen with her at that moment.

‘You’ll have to forgive us for staring,’ said Bow, and he looked around for support, ‘but we haven’t seen a—a young woman for—well, for a long time.’ He laughed nervously, and the others smiled, although Meg noticed that Long was shaking his head as if disgusted.

‘Neither have I,’ she replied.

The men hesitated, saw her cheeky smile, and laughed.

Gold and yellow fires flickered in every direction. The evening echoed to song and conversations, punctuated by cheering around drinking and assorted games. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t find him,’ Blade said, as he handed Meg the chipped mead jug.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly, and lifted the jug to her lips to savour the sweet nectar.

‘I’m still amazed that you came through everything uninjured,’ he remarked. ‘Your tunic was sliced across your back and soaked with blood. There was plenty of blood on your face and neck as well. But no serious injuries at all.’

‘Lucky,’ she replied, but she was also puzzled. Her injuries had miraculously healed since the morning conflict, as had all her injuries since she had begun her dismal adventure. Reasoning the matter with Blade, however, was untenable. Mead and exhaustion were taking their toll and her mind was fuzzy. Men were laughing. Drunk soldiers close by were mournfully singing lyrics she half-remembered from
Archer’s Inn about a sword-toting lad who travelled the land in search of challenges to break a curse on his family. Firelight flickered. The mulled mead was soothing. The entire camp was alive with mirth and happiness.

Earlier, after eating and drinking, the soldiers in Blade’s Group had begun a wrestling contest, each participant stripping to his trousers and grappling with an opponent to see who could be first forced to his knees or onto his back. Meg watched in fascination as the eight who volunteered simultaneously completed their first round to the delight of the cheering crowd. The winning four paired up and fought until two were standing. Blade intervened to announce, ‘The winner of the next bout will wrestle our youngest and newest recruit!’ and he pointed to Meg. The men cheered enthusiastically. Someone shouted, ‘Can’t wait to see that one strip to his trousers!’ and they all laughed louder, and she laughed with them. The final match was hard fought, until burly Bow Shaftmaker triumphed, to everyone’s delight, and the loser, a wiry and tough little nugget of a man, Handy Bowyer, was compensated with a large tankard of ale that someone thrust into his hand as he sat on the ground. Bow excused Meg from the final bout, saying, ‘It would be a mockery to all men if she beat me, and I’m not risking that after what she did today on the battlefield,’ and he was good-naturedly cheered and jeered for his show of chivalry.

Meg did notice that no one mentioned the dead throughout the night. There were hesitations in conversations when absent men were almost mentioned, the listeners nodding knowingly as the speaker altered tack. When she politely asked Blade why the names of the dead were avoided, he explained, ‘It’s a soldiers’ superstition. We believe that
the souls of men slain on the field of battle are scooped up by the Demon Horsemen and carried to the gates of Paradise. If any of their names are mentioned before they reach Paradise, their souls are lost and the Demon Horsemen return to collect one of us as a replacement.’