The Amber Legacy (40 page)

Alone again, Meg gazed out her window at the city lights beyond the palace walls. She had already been to
war, for a different cause, and she’d seen what war did to people. She hadn’t forgotten her frantic scramble through the ranks of fighting men, the fear, and the horror. She hadn’t left her home the second time to go to war—she left to find out who she was meant to be. But now she was going to war again. Last time it was to save Treasure and instead she had killed him. Her hands trembled, and she felt the tears threatening to spill. This time she was being asked to save the kingdom.
What is the twist?
she wondered.
What vision showed me this event?
She racked her memory, but she couldn’t recall dreams associated with another war. There was the one of being old and standing on the battlements, and she wasn’t yet old. But so much had happened to her that she
hadn’t
dreamed about, why should she think she would have dreamed about this war? They were erratic. She’d had dreams that never came true—some that could
never
come true, like flying on a dragon.

Memories of Treasure, memories of baby Jon overwhelmed her and she sank to the tiled floor, and cried. Why was it that the people she loved were being taken from her? The Rebel war had claimed her father and Button Tailor. She’d slain Treasure with her own hand. Jon had been stolen. And Jewel. She’d forsaken her mother and brothers by coming to Port of Joy. Emma had told her that her fortune lay in coming to the city—that she would become a Seer—but so far the journey had brought pain and misery and loss. She was tired of loss.

She woke with the morning sun splashing through her window. Whisper, curled on the edge of the bed, didn’t move when Meg slid out of the covers and rang the bell for Ruby to prepare her washbowl, as if the rat already knew that she wouldn’t be going on this journey. ‘I will
come back,’ Meg said, stroking the rat’s sleek fur. Whisper rolled onto her side and stretched out, but she kept her tiny eyes firmly shut.

After washing, Meg dressed in the Royal black outfit she intended to wear for the journey—a tunic with the Royal crest in gold, black trousers and a heavy black vest. Ruby and Wattle packed two bags with spare clothes and toiletry items, and Meg shoved the
Summoning
text in one bag as well. ‘That will be all,’ Meg said. ‘Thank you both for your help. I’ll see you when I return.’

Ruby, bewildered, said, ‘But we’re accompanying you, Lady Amber.’

When Meg raised a questioning eyebrow, Wattle added, ‘Her Majesty ordered us to go with you.’

Meg smiled. ‘I’m going to war,’ she told the two young women. ‘War’s brutal and horrible. I don’t want you there.’

‘But Her Majesty—’ Ruby began.

‘—will understand,’ Meg interrupted. ‘I need you to stay here to look after Whisper, and wait for me.’ She hugged Ruby and Wattle in turn. ‘I wouldn’t want you to come. You’d see things no one should have to see, and the men would chase you to distraction.’ Ruby stifled a giggle. Meg shook her head. ‘Having lots of men wanting your attention sounds good, but, trust me, they don’t treat you with respect.’

‘It’s not respect Ruby would be after,’ Wattle quipped, and then she tried to stifle her smile, bowing her head in apology for her outburst.

Meg pretended to frown, but then she laughed, and said, ‘Well, I’m not taking
all
the handsome Elite Guards with me this morning, so I’m sure Ruby can amuse herself while I’m away.’ The surprise and shock on the young women’s faces at her lewd suggestion only made Meg laugh more, and then all three were
laughing, stopped finally by a heavy hand knocking on the chamber door. Ruby caught her composure and answered it.

Queen Sunset entered, accompanied by a smoothfaced man of average height in the armour of an Elite Guard. He carried a helmet with a golden plume, indicating his Leader rank, and he bowed before Meg. ‘Good morning, Lady Amber,’ the Queen said, and nodded to Ruby and Wattle, indicating that they should immediately absent themselves. To Meg, she said, ‘This is Leader Strongarm.’ Strongarm bowed again. Meg saw in his features a handsome strength and sensed honesty. His closely cropped dark hair complemented his strength. ‘He knows your mission is of utmost importance and that your protection is more important than his own life. His Group is assembled and waiting. Are you ready?’

‘Yes—Your Majesty,’ Meg replied. Remembering public protocol, she bowed her head, but when she met the Queen’s gaze she noticed a faint smile on her lips, like a friend sharing a private joke, and smiled as well.

‘Good,’ Sunset continued. ‘I wish you Jarudha’s guidance and protection on your mission, and I’ll eagerly await news of your successes.’ She turned away and left the room.

T
ravelling on horseback reminded her of the journey to Port of Joy and the early discomfort she’d suffered. The mounted Group of fifty Elite Guards, black armour polished, pennants flapping in the breeze, with Meg riding in their front ranks, drew attention from people throughout the countryside, and as they rode east they met scores of refugees retreating from the pillaging enemy. Reports placed Beranix’s diversionary force less than two days from Port of Joy, and regular messengers brought updated information from the Marchlords who were desperately trying to stall the advance.

The Group camped on the outskirts of East River, where Meg was given her own tent, surrounded by the soldiers. Leader Strongarm attempted his best courtly manner in seeing to it that Meg was comfortable and, while she considered telling him that she was used to harder living, she accepted that the man was only doing what the Queen had ordered and decided that she should let him feel successful.

Exhausted from riding, she retired after eating the warm evening gruel, and in the privacy of her tent she conjured a light spell. She revisited the contents of
Summoning
, memorising the words and hand movement
sequences that apparently helped to activate the spells. She had no idea whether the spells would work because there had been no opportunity to practise them, so she curled up to sleep with the uncertainty of what she was attempting spinning in her mind.

The blue light reminded her of them. And they appeared, bursting through the light on black steeds that breathed fire from their flaring nostrils and sparked lightning from their hooves as they struck the ground. They raced past her, even as she screamed at them to go back, and vanished into a wall of darkness. She turned and saw a huge battlefield, men locked in brutal war, and the Demon Horsemen rode through the ranks, cutting swathes with their swords, immune to the frantic efforts of men to bring them down. Like scythes in a grain crop at Summerbrook, the riders felled soldiers on either side, and she was powerless to stop them.

The next morning, as she rode beside Leader Strongarm, the dream images haunted her. She had no intention of releasing the Demon Horsemen. She’d deliberately ignored that spell in
Summoning
, fearing that even knowing the spell might put her at risk. But the images kept plaguing her, as if threatening to become reality, and she was filled with fear that what had happened with her dreams of Treasure’s death—the cruel twist hidden from her until it was too late—would recur now in her attempt to end the fighting between the opposing armies. What was the twist? Was she going to unwittingly release the Demon Horsemen? No. That, she resolved, would never be her doing.

The stream of people fleeing Beranix’s army increased throughout the morning, but after midday it dropped to a trickle. Beyond the shallow escarpment in
the landscape ahead, columns of smoke rose into the overcast afternoon sky, disheartening evidence of sacked towns and farms. Messengers came and went, delivering their missives and returning to the battlefront. ‘From here on, we ride with caution,’ Leader Strongarm announced to his Group at the base of the escarpment. ‘We’ll camp with Marchlord Longreach’s men this evening on Kangaroo Ridge. The enemy are preparing another assault, according to the latest reports, so be ready to fight.’ A rustle of leather and metal flowed through the Group as the Elite Guards slipped the straps from their sword hilts and adjusted their shields and armour. Leader Strongarm gave the order and they began the escarpment ascent.

On the ridge, among the trees, the familiar sight of an army encampment greeted Meg, but this one was more chaotic than any she’d seen before, as if the entire camp was a temporary interruption to a greater force of movement. As the Elite Guards rode through the haphazard arrangement of shelters, she also noted the number of severely wounded men lying among their comrades. Her former experience was that the army moved the wounded back to a caravan where surgeons set to healing those who could be saved. Here it seemed that service was impossible. A host of men were busy hacking mallee and gum branches into sharpened stakes, while others erected the stakes in a rough palisade. Soldiers watched the procession wind through the camp, eyes mainly on the red-haired woman. Meg had forgotten her effect on men in the cloistered palace, but instead of letting the stares unsettle her, as they might have done in the past, she rode among the Elite Guards with an air of confidence.

A sudden cry of ‘Red!’ startled her. She was caught between surprise and happiness when she recognised Blade Cutter’s solid shoulders and short, dark scruffy
beard and hair. She reined in, and waited for him to reach her horse. ‘Well now, this is a pleasant surprise,’ he said, grinning, ‘and not dressed up as a soldier anymore.’

‘But still at a war,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here either.’

‘There’s a war and I’m a soldier in the Queen’s army,’ he said, with a sharp glance at the troop of Elite Guards. ‘Interesting company you keep nowadays.’

Leader Strongarm appeared beside her and looked down at Blade, saying, ‘We’re short of time, Lady Amber. Marchlord Longreach is waiting.’

‘You
are Lady Amber?’ Blade asked in amazement.

‘That’s what they like to call me,’ she said, smiling.

‘You are full of more surprises than a carnival magician!’

‘Lady Amber?’ Leader Strongarm interrupted, annoyance in his tone.

‘Don’t keep the Marchlord waiting,’ Blade remarked, meeting Strongarm’s gaze.

‘I’ll come and find you afterwards,’ she promised, as she wheeled her horse and rode away.

‘Don’t leave it too long,’ he called after her. ‘Beranix the Butcher’s keen to get on with the fight.’

‘How do you know that man?’ Strongarm asked as they approached a large tent bearing the Royal crest on a black banner.

‘I fought beside him at the Battle of The Whispering Forest,’ she answered, ignoring the astonished expression on the Elite Leader’s face as they halted outside the Marchlord’s tent.

Marchlord Longreach was older than Meg had expected, a frail man well into his fifties, but his eyes had the steely resolve of someone who had endured. The audience with him was terse and brief. He didn’t believe in mumbo-jumbo magic, and if he had his way
he wouldn’t have brought a woman to the battlefield to fight where men were meant to fight. The enemy’s shaman were proving to be nuisances because they instilled superstition in his soldiers, so he pragmatically accepted the Queen’s decision to send a Seer. He’d expected a man, not a woman—and especially not a beautiful young woman—so he remained sceptical. ‘You can expect to earn your keep very soon,’ he told her. ‘The Butcher’s men are warming up right now. They’ll be on us at dusk, and if they don’t get what they want then, they’ll be back first thing in the morning. You set up wherever you see fit, but stay out of the way of my soldiers doing their job. You understand me?’ So Meg left his tent knowing that he wasn’t overly appreciative of her presence and that, if she didn’t perform to his expectations, he’d be ordering her out of the battle as soon as he legitimately could without offending his Queen.

She stood on a watch point with two Queen’s soldiers and her personal bodyguard of four Elite Guards, looking into the valley at the enemy camp nestled in the bush, and saw soldiers busily moving like ants. Marchlord Longreach said an attack was imminent. She glanced up at the shadow of the sinking sun behind the clouds. Dusk was only a short time away.
What does a shaman look like?
she wondered. What kind of magic would the shaman with this army generate? She considered her choice of spells. The enemy in the valley would be susceptible to a localised weather change. That might be her best option.

‘There!’ a soldier yelled. Shadows moved through the bush. The second soldier unhitched his horn and sounded the alarm, and shouts and orders erupted along the ridge as soldiers ran to defend the palisade. The shadows took form as soldiers in grey cloaks advancing silently up the slope towards the defences.

‘Archers ready!’ a Leader bellowed. ‘Eighty paces! Fire!’ Arrows whistled across the space into the ranks of the enemy, and to everyone’s horror they passed through ineffectually.

‘Ghosts!’ a soldier beside Meg gasped in horror. ‘They come as ghosts!’ His jaw hung slack.

His companion faltered and stepped back from his post. A second volley of arrows had no impact. ‘We’re done for!’ the second soldier cried, and bolted.

All along the palisade soldiers started to fall back in terror. ‘It’s an illusion!’ Meg yelled. With a quick motion of her hands and three whispered words, the advancing enemy dissolved like morning mist. She heard a cry of ‘They’re gone!’ ripple through the Royal ranks. Then out of the bush came a volley of arrows, thudding into the palisade and bringing down a handful of unlucky soldiers, and a bloodcurdling war cry echoed across the valley as the real enemy burst from cover. Meg retreated several paces, checking whether she was under threat, and her bodyguards closed protectively around her.

The enemy crashed into the palisade and the weight of their numbers breached a section at the centre, flattening the poles to expose the defenders. Closer to Meg, a small knot of enemy soldiers were heading purposefully along the perimeter in her direction, their intention to flank the defences and come in from the side. She ordered her bodyguards to step aside, focussed, pointed at the enemy, and a massive fireball engulfed the entire group. The explosion had a simultaneous effect on the nearby enemy soldiers, who turned and fled down the slope. Encouraged by the response, Meg conjured a second fireball, this time exploding it harmlessly near the main attacking force. Again, the enemy soldiers panicked and retreated, leaving their wounded and dying in their wake. Their
fear spread through the ranks like wildfire, and within moments the battle ended as the enemy ran for safety.

The Queen’s men regrouped on the ridge in the fading evening light. Satisfied with the effectiveness of her spells, Meg watched three parties emerge from behind the palisade to search for survivors among the enemy. To her horror, as they found men in need of care, they slaughtered them. Anger quickly replacing revulsion, she headed for the killing parties with her bodyguard in tow. Leader Strongarm stepped into her path. ‘What’s wrong, Lady Amber?’

‘They’re killing helpless men,’ she told him.

‘Marchlord Longreach wants to see you,’ he said, as if he hadn’t heard her protest.

‘Can’t you
see
what’s happening?’ she asked. ‘They’re slaughtering them.’

Unperturbed, Strongarm said laconically, ‘Fortunes of war.’

‘I can heal them.’

‘The Marchlord is waiting, Lady Amber.’

‘Let the bastard wait!’ Meg snarled, and started towards the killing, but her bodyguards intervened. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked angrily.

‘There’s nothing you can do for them,’ Strongarm said. ‘Marchlord Longreach has sent you an order. I’m to see that you obey it.’

She glared at the Elite Guards Leader, who met her green-eyed stare with equanimity, while the bodyguards held their ground. With an exasperated sigh, she acquiesced and let them guide her to the Marchlord’s tent.

Marchlord Longreach was fully dressed in his battle armour, the metal shining in the torchlight, and his long grey hair was tied in a ponytail. He nodded to Meg as she arrived, saying, ‘So you’ve proven me wrong, have you? Well then, I admit you have a unique Blessing. Congratulations. What else can you do to make this
barbarian filth give up and run home with its tail between its legs? Hey? Make it quick. I don’t have dallying time, young lady.’

‘I don’t like seeing soldiers killing the wounded,’ she protested.

‘Oh, really? Then don’t look,’ Longreach replied, and the Leaders and soldiers smirked at his retort. ‘I asked you a question. What’s your answer?’

‘I can turn the weather against them.’

Longreach’s bushy grey eyebrows rose mockingly. ‘You’re going to make it what? Wet? Cold? So what?’

The old man’s arrogance infuriated her. In a clipped tone, she answered, ‘They’re based in a valley. The slopes feed water to the bottom. In heavy rains, my guess is that the creek down there runs deep and quick. The right weather will drive them out.’

‘And
you
are going to make the
right
weather?’ Longreach asked. ‘Who are you—Jarudha?’

A droplet of rain touched Meg’s face. A Leader remarked, ‘She’s already started,’ and the men laughed.

‘I don’t have to do this,’ she muttered, unable to restrain her anger.

‘By Jarudha, girl, you
don’t
have to do this. Unless
I
order it,’ Longreach snapped authoritatively. He coughed, spat and wiped his mouth, and looked around the circle of torch-lit faces. Misty rain drifted through the evening air. ‘Go and drown the rats,
if
you can,’ he said. When he saw her staring, he growled, ‘That’s an order!’

The spell was easy to recall, and the weather conditions were perfect. Rain was already falling softly, and she had seen heavy clouds sweeping in from the south-west before sunset. It was the time involved in the casting that exhausted her. Unlike other spells that she’d learned in the past cycles, weather conjuration—
according to the texts—was an unstable, fickle spell requiring patience and luck. She regretted suggesting it as she sat in the light rain in the dark above the watch point, painstakingly reciting the Andrakian script. She had no idea if the spell would work, and if she failed she knew the Marchlord would revel in humiliating her. Her bodyguards waited in the dark, sheltering under a pine tree, and she guessed that they were as miserable as she was. Irritating rain trickled down the back of her neck, disrupting her concentration, making her repeat lines, which only slowed the process. Nothing seemed to change as she reached different crucial stages—until she began the final phrase. Lightning cracked overhead, flooding the bush in white light, and an instant later rain poured down as if a huge water bucket had been tipped on the world.

By the time she reached her tent, slipping on the sodden ground in the dark because all the camp torches had been doused, she was drenched and shivering. Water was flooding into her tent, so she cast a light spell and frantically tried to stem the flow with her hands and a small earth wall, but the water kept coming in. She shifted her possessions to a dry corner, dispelled her light sphere, and stood in the dark, listening to the roaring rain that she had unleashed. She had no idea how long the rain would fall. According to the spell book, that was dependent on how much accumulated moisture was in the atmosphere at the time of casting and how much continuous additional cloud passed through the localised area. She could do nothing but wait. Then she remembered that she hadn’t seen Leader Blade like she’d promised. Tomorrow—when the ridge was secure.