She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) (36 page)

Eric now had tears streaming down his cheeks.  ‘No, Samuel,’ he said, shaking his head.  ‘We can’t leave him!’

There seemed to be no alternative.  Even if the room w
ere
quiet and he had time, it would be difficult to think of some way to defuse the nightmarish power they had summoned.  Samuel could only shake his head.  They had made a dreadful error in judgement.

‘Go!’ Goodfellow yelled.  ‘Go now!  Go!’  He was shaking feverishly to contain the spell.

‘Eric!’ Samuel roared out, shaking his friend by the shoulders.  ‘We have no choice.  We have to leave—now!’  He was within the bounds of the Journey spell.  All Eric had to do was release it and they would both be away from the room—away from Goodfellow, Ghant and its immediate destruction.

Eric was loose in his grip, as if he had given up hope.

‘Eric!  There’s nothing we can do!’ Samuel bellowed again, looking over his shoulder to the struggling form of Goodfellow.  ‘Release the spell!’

It was then that three things happened
,
each one barely a fraction of a second after the last.  First, the door burst open as a great length of timber came crashing in.  Through the splintered gap,
they could see that
the hallway was full of Paatin, some of them shimmering with magic, and they began stepping over the broken pieces of wood and surging into the room.  Second, with the last spark of his willpower, Goodfellow pushed all the power of his spell as tightly as he could, down into one tiny spot, so it looked as if the thing had swallowed itself into a single atomic speck.  The crackling and the hissing and shrieking of the spell all ceased, and the room was deathly quiet.  Goodfellow looked up at them with a glum but contented look in his eye.  The third thing that happened was that Eric Pot triggered his Journey spell and
,
in the next instant
,
he and Samuel were standing in the cold night air of the mounting yard, far along the ravine and surrounded by the last fleeing remnants of Ghant’s defenders.

They heard a noise; a sharp crack followed by a hollow boom and they turned their heads towards the vast central tower of Ghant.  Night turned to day and the mountain fortress disappeared in a sudden
,
blinding flash.  A wave of violence rippled up the mountainsides and the storm clouds fled before it.  The boiling wind hit everyone in the mounting yard with a deafening noise and the earth bucked them from their feet, sending man and horse alike sprawling over.  Eric fell, too, for his strength had been sapped from him, drawn away by the fading luminous lines of his Great Spell.  Only Samuel still stood to witness the death of Ghant. 

As the initial blast passed him by, it could be seen that the top of the citadel was gone and the rest of the structure had begun to fall in upon itself.  With a massive rumbling, the mountainside on which the fortress was forged began to slide away and was swallowed by an enormous plume of billowing dust.  That was when the soldiers all around him began to yell in fear.

‘Go
,
go
,
go!’ they yelled and every soldier scrambled to his feet and fled for all he was worth, away from the chasm’s edge and down along the mountain path.  The earth tremored and the shaking grew into a mighty swaying as boulders and slabs of solid stone the size of houses came crashing down amongst them. 

Samuel had Eric by the collar of his robes and was pulling the magic-weary magician along behind him.  His last sight of Ghant was of it slipping into the dust-shrouded chasm, ripping away from the mountain and taking the entire lip of the ravine with it.  Those Paatin who had made it from the citadel were gone, crushed or thrown to their deaths.  Those on the far side of the chasm began retreating as much as they could, for the far ledge had also begun to give way.  Their entire army had pushed up behind them and stones fell on those in equal proportion as they fled. 

Ghant was lost.  The cost had been great, but the Paatin horde would not cross this way.

‘Samuel,’ Eric called as he was dragged and pulled by Samuel down the narrow valley approach.  He had seemed to recover some of his senses.  ‘Is it done?  Did we make it?’

‘We did,’ Samuel said.  ‘Ghant has been destroyed.’

‘Where is Eric?  What have we done to our friend?’

‘He is dead,’ Samuel replied.  ‘Now come.  Let us get to Shallowbrook.  We have much to do.’

Across the Divide

Those that escaped from Ghant had filled the already swollen town of Shallowbrook to overflowing.  People were crammed into every space, attempting to shelter from the icy wind.  Lengths of canvas and cloth had been strung all over in attempt to provide at least some form of rudimentary shelter.  Captain Orrell and Captain Yarn had barely escaped from Ghant themselves and had now taken control, ordering as many refugees as possible to move along as soon as they could, deeper into central Turia.

There was little chance that any Paatin would be coming from the direction of Ghant, but until their scouts had confirmed that the pass had
,
indeed
,
been sealed, no chances were being taken.  Initial reports were that the valley paths had been torn asunder
and were now
untraversable, lest more of the shattered mountain come tumbling down
;
so that was good news for the time being. 

The entire town had heard the din of Ghant’s destruction, and the mountains continued to clack and complain from afar as great sheets of rock continued to dislodge and thunder down from the frozen heights.

The Koian party—what was left of it—was put up in one of the many small town inns and the magicians had taken refuge in the building next door. 

They were
permitted
several days to recuperate from the shock of their losses, before Balten came striding to their table with Captain Orrell in tow.  Samuel and Eric, sitting forlornly inside the entrance where they could keep an eye on the commotion outside, put their cups of
hot
lemon tea aside and waited for the men to speak.

‘I brought the good captain here, because you need to decide what to do,’ Balten explained.  ‘If you are still insistent on a mountain crossing
,
then every day lost is vital.  But we must cross before winter falls upon us in earnest.  You can’t sit here forever pining and moping.  As terrible as it was, we must move on.’

Samuel was about to scold the man, but Eric beat him to it, speaking with barely restrained anger.  ‘This has nothing to do with you.  You have no part in Order business.  Leave us be.’

Balten was unfazed.  ‘The war affects everyone.  I am only offering my help.  With old Tudor perished, I am the only one who knows the far side of the mountains.’

Eric returned his gaze to his tea.  He had been withdrawn and silent since Ghant had fallen—with Goodfellow and Grand Master Tudor inside it.

‘Our losses have already been great,’ Captain Orrell continued, ‘so it’s understandable if you decide to return to Cintar.  I think enough time has passed and we can assume Grand Master Tudor did not survive.  Balten’s offer is fair.’

‘Yes,’ Samuel admitted.  ‘We realise that.  There is no question of what we shall do.  We will continue to Paatin to rescue the Empress.  We just needed some time to...collect our thoughts.’

Orrell nodded, saying seriously
,
  ‘Then you should press on.  I have procured a local guide who can lead you through the mountains.  I understand such a crossing is difficult, but not impossible if you move quickly.’

Samuel looked up to the captain standing above him.  ‘You’re not coming?’

Orrell shook his head.  ‘Not if it can be avoided.  I have much to do here.  These people need us and we must ensure the Paatin do not find a way through.  Valiant will go with you in my stead.’

‘It’s not necessary, Captain,’ Samuel said.  ‘The more people with us, the more trouble we shall have.  If the mountain crossing is as hazardous as we have been led to believe, your men will only make our task all the more difficult.  We will take care of ourselves.’

‘That is fine,’ Balten stated.  ‘Then I will inform the others.  We will leave soon.  Captain Orrell will
see to
the packs and supplies.  Just organise yourselves ready to go.’

This time Samuel looked at the taller magician with confusion.  ‘Others?  I think it’s better that I go on alone.  The Paatin only want me.  Too many have died already.’

‘You’re not going alone,’ Eric piped up.  ‘I won’t let it end here.  I will come too.’

‘And your
S
eer and his attendant are still intent on the journey,’ Balten revealed, to which Samuel sighed.  ‘He’s been more excited than ever.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Samuel said.

‘I thought the Koians were going with you, also,’ Orrell said.  ‘At least, that’s what I assumed from how Master Celios was speaking.  Perhaps you can speak to him about this.’

With that, the two men departed, leaving Samuel and Eric to sip quietly at their tea.  Samuel looked at the sunny blue sky outside and hoped the weather would hold.  With Tudor gone and Celios
minus
his senses for most of the time, it seemed Balten was now taking steps to be in charge.  Then so be it for now, he thought.  The air was full of turmoil and his magician’s senses could not foretell what was to come.

Their party assembled in the middle of the town, where Captain Orrell and Lieutenant Valiant were directing a handful of their men, loading and checking several sturdy ponies that had been piled with sacks and bags, and
examining
others that had been saddled and prepared for riding.  Balten was there, dressed in sturdy boots and practical climbing clothes.  Sir Ferse was similarly adorned, with a knitted scarf of local make flapping around his neck to keep out the chill.  Master Celios was dressed as always—thick black robes over black shirt and trousers—and he seemed to be muttering to himself, biting at his nails nervously.  They would need to worry least about the weather for
,
as magicians
,
they were resistant to such things and could use their spells to warm themselves.

‘Foolish Order lackeys,’ Balten said to the magicians, noting their dress.  ‘We climb to the frigid heights and you come dressed like this.  Let’s see how comfortable you feel when your spells start growing thin.  Such clothes, black or otherwise, will do little against the snow.’

Samuel ignored him and instead spoke loudly into Master Celios’ hood, ‘Master Celios?’ to which the old man
interrupted
his apparent daze and looked at Samuel with the calm of a doting grandfather.  ‘Why are the Koians coming?  I thought they were only needed as far as Ghant?’

‘Alas, I cannot say for sure, Samuel.  My dreams tell me many things, some true, some false.  I am less sure about the fate of these
O
utlanders, but they are still keen to accompany us and I am not sure of anything these last few days.  Let them come.’

‘It will only cause more trouble for us,’ Samuel said, trying not to let his voice carry to the nearby Koians.  ‘What will we do with them once we get to the desert?’

‘I cannot see.  Nevertheless, they will come,’ Celios stated.

The Koians milled about together, each dressed in locally
-
sourced garments, for it seemed almost everyone had lost their belongings in the citadel.  Strangest of all was the god-woman
,
for she was entirely without make-up and was dressed the same as Lady Wind beside her, with an ankle length skirt over sturdy trousers and with a thick
,
hooded coat.  The woman was looking about nervously, peeking out from her hood and obviously uncomfortable out of her traditional costumes.

‘Who is that girl?’ Eric asked of Samuel.