The Ancient Ones (The Legacy Trilogy Book 3) (48 page)

He wondered if he had the strength to do the impossible, the foolhardy, and go with him. It was the right thing to do, yet he felt an almost irresistible urge to flee back to the ship with the others and helplessly await his fate.

‘Captain Orrell! Wait!’ he cried, summoning his courage. The man paused for him to catch up. ‘I will come too.’ Orrell eyed him warily. ‘This is my crusade, my responsibility. I ran before, but I will not run now. If we do not succeed, then there is nowhere else to run to. I will not go back to the ship defeated. I will not let more good people die on my behalf.’

Orrell simply nodded and continued on his way, giving away no clue as to knowing of Leopold’s failings.

Lady Wind’s group had also paused and Leopold took the opportunity to jog back to them. He needed to say something in his defence before going to his death.

‘I am sorry for abandoning you,’ he said to the survivors. ‘I will not do it again.’

‘Well done, young Emperor,’ Phoenix replied, pain in her voice. ‘You go to either a courageous death or a miraculous triumph, both honourable fates.’

Leopold nodded to her in reply, feeling the drying blood flaking from his neck as he moved. He turned to Kali to receive advice, hoping for some kind words or reassurance, but her emotions were hidden. Her face was blank, an expressionless slate to match any magician’s.

‘Emperor Leopold.’ It was Lady Wind who spoke. ‘I wish you good fortune.’

‘Thank you, My Lady,’ he responded.

‘Well done, young champion,’ said Daneel. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you, but you’ve proved me wrong.’

‘Goodbye,’ were Leopold’s final words to them all. He could not add anything further to suit the situation, so he left it at that.

The haggard group turned to be on their way, leaving Leopold to chase after Salu and the captain.

Salu had already disappeared out of the hall, but Leopold caught Captain Orrell in the last few steps before the doorway.

The staunch man gave Leopold a level look, one last chance for reprieve, one final opportunity for Leopold to change his mind.

‘Let’s go,’ Leopold told him firmly.

Someone called to them then, a voice issuing from a narrow, unassuming door to the side of the chamber.

‘What noises are these I hear? Who creates a clamour and cacophony? Who raises such a boisterous din outside my home and disturbs my slumber?’ It was the voice of an elderly woman. ‘Someone murders my keepers. Someone chatters like the monkeys, speaking not Eudan nor Koian. What strangers cause this hubbub?’

Leopold hurried to the door and pulled on its rusted handle. ‘It’s locked. Captain, can you open it?’

‘Who is it?’ the man called through the single narrow slat in the door, not able to understand the woman’s Koian words. He was unhappy with the interruption and glanced towards the chamber exit impatiently.

The woman did not reply.

‘I do not know,’ answered Leopold.

‘She’s better off where she is for the time being,’ Orrell professed. ‘Leave her be and she can be saved in good time. We have other tasks to attend to.’

Leopold went to object, then realised the good sense of the man’s words. ‘We will come back for you,’ he said, speaking into the narrow door. ‘Who are you?’

‘Now you speak my tongue as if born here, except for your brazen choice of words,’ crackled the voice from inside the cell. ‘I am Empress Moon. Leave me here then, in my sanctuary of darkness and regret. I am ruler of all things within these walls ... the dirt and the dust and the darkness. Perhaps one day I shall walk out through that door. But what strange world of light and smells would await me? I cannot say, I cannot say ...’

‘We will be back,’ Leopold repeated, unsure of what else to tell her.

‘All I know is the dark …’ the woman continued to mutter.

Leopold left her, following the captain. They moved along quickly, out of the hall and through the passages, spying Salu not far ahead. He must have slowed to allow them to catch up, for no sooner had they reached him than he accelerated away again. The old man’s feet leapt like a deer’s, and he only grew nimbler as they climbed each level, impatient to reach their goal.

An occasional Koian guard waited in the passages, but offered no more an obstacle than a strand of spider web stretched across the passage. Salu slapped them all down with a flick of his rod. No more than one strike was needed, for the heavy bar stove in their skulls like cracked eggs. Raised swords did nothing to delay him. Raised hands did not sway his heart. Locked and barred doors fell just as easily, barely slowing his cracking pace.

‘There is surprisingly little resistance,’ Leopold noted.

‘They draw us out into the open,’ Captain Orrell responded in front.

‘And we shall meet them with a vengeance!’ roared Salu, surprising the both of them with his ferocity. The man was fired up for the occasion.

They broke out into sunlight, coming up a final length of stairs that opened into the side of a small courtyard, far from the river. There was no one in sight. Only the beating of drums sounded from afar, and it was towards these that Salu led them. He seemed on the verge of fury, smashing stone columns and ornaments to pieces as he passed, grunting with rage.

They raced across gravelly paths and gardened spaces, through rooms and halls and across narrow waterways. All the while, not a soul was seen.

Following a long wall, they turned through an opening and found themselves at the side of the first great entrance court of the palace. The drumming stopped at once.

The scene that awaited halted all three in their tracks. The space was filled with Eudan soldiers, just as it was when they had first met Pradmet. In addition, there were sorcerers—at least fifty of them—spaced evenly in front of the men; barechested, baldheaded men every one, slatted black skirts obscuring their legs.

To the left, at the top of the courtyard steps, a throne had been placed, and Pradmet sat upon it, complete with his plumed hat. Prithamon and Jessicah stood next to him and a hundred drummers were behind them, busy filing away up the stairs now their task was done, carrying their drums with them.

A further addition to the courtyard stuck out: a flat slab of stone had been placed directly in the middle. Everyone was spaced away from it, and the reason was perfectly clear. Upon the slab lay Samuel, chained down in his black robes, shaking and in turmoil as he struggled to contain his demons. Mage-fire ran from him like boiling syrup and it fell from the altar’s edges in slathers and gathered around its base, contorting the air with its vaporous presence. Purple tendrils of power lashed out, snapping at the stones and searing them with a savage heat.

Looking towards the throne, ‘Jessicah!’ Captain Orrell cried out, and he would have rushed forward if not for Salu’s arm held out to stop him.

It was too far to make out her expression, but she remained still and quiet between Pradmet and Prithamon, with lines of soldiers stretching below them on the steps.

The young Emperor, the veteran soldier and the old magician waited there, gazing at the thousands that surrounded them. Leopold took one longing glance at the path behind them, briefly considering taking flight from the battleground, but he knew it would be of little use. He returned his attention to where it should be, alongside Captain Orrell and Salu, and he drew his sword defiantly and readied himself for battle.

He could not tell if Salu’s gift was still aiding him or not, for he no longer felt imbued with dizzying power. On the other hand, he was not nearly as afraid as he should be—perhaps because of the hopelessness of it all. Resolutely, he accepted the fact that here he was going to fight, and here he would probably die, and his nervousness vanished altogether.

‘What say you, old man?’ Captain Orrell scanned the scene, using his years of experience to assess the battlefield. ‘Can we take them?’

A hidden chain dragged and clanked behind them, and a heavy section of the wall scraped into place, sealing the entrance and removing any option of escape.

‘Of course,’ Salu replied gruffly.

‘Then keep our backs to the wall, one to each direction,’ Orrell instructed. ‘We hold them as long as we can.’

‘We must do better than that,’ Salu added. ‘Samuel’s demons nearly have the upper hand. Keep close to him. His flames will shield us. We must defeat these men—and quickly. ’

‘Defeat them?’ Orrell repeated with disbelief. He laughed at the thought—laughter filled with madness and grief. His eyes were red and filled with yearning as he looked towards Jessicah once more.

It seemed their chance for discussion was over and the time for battle was begun, for Pradmet raised one finger—not bothering to lift his hand from his armrest—and his soldiers charged.

Salu bolted forward with Captain Orrell at his side and Leopold at the other. They made for the altar, and the Eudan soldiers closed in from all sides to meet them, waves crushing in.

Everyone reached the altar at the same time, and with a colossal racket the battle began. As Salu had presumed, the Eudans did not cross the flaming stonework around Samuel. They were reluctant to even near it, and that defensive barrier formed a splinter of salvation.

Salu swung his rod as lightly as a wicker twig, and where it met flesh the bodies took flight. He turned and spun and his weapon clanked and pounded, clearing swaths of vacant space. More Eudan soldiers flooded in to fill those gaps, a host of sword and spear.

Captain Orrell was deadly, dropping the Eudans one at a time with every stroke. He fought without finesse or elegance; chopping and hacking, parrying, chopping and slicing again. He yelled all the while, laughing hysterically through a mask of blood. The Captain Orrell of old was gone, replaced by this desperate, raging madman.

Leopold barely had time to think, and he dearly wished for Salu’s empowerment to return. It did not, and he had to make each combat decision himself, struggling to remain alive. Yet, some residual effect had his eye snagging on the openings in his attackers’ defences, had him avoiding the enemy’s attacks as if by chance. Leopold slid his weapon home time and time again, piercing skin and flesh, driving its tip through vital organs, then plucking his blade free, living to strike again.

The altar behind them was the only thing that kept the Eudans from overwhelming them. The enemy kept clear of the magical flames, more fearful of Samuel than of the three men currently wreaking havoc upon them. Still, the odds were insurmountable; the sheer volume of the Eudans crushing in upon them would soon see them overcome.

Amidst the shouts and turmoil, there was a cry of pain and Captain Orrell fell to one knee, spurting blood from his side. Adeptly, Leopold ducked away and came to his aid, thrusting the steel of his sword right through the neck of the nearest man who sought to finish him. Grabbing Orrell’s hand he pulled the man as close to the altar as he dare. There they sheltered, behind the shielding wall that was Salu, between him and the searing waves of heat.

Shaking and quivering, the captain grabbed Leopold by the collar and forcefully pulled him nearer. ‘Leopold!’ he hissed. ‘Promise me ... you’ll save her.’

Leopold nodded, mindful of the hopelessness. They were surrounded by thousands of men. Salu could potentially deal with them eventually, but he could not do that and also protect the two of them. The end seemed unavoidable. ‘I promise.’

Salu paused from his destruction, glared at the pair, and grunted with discontent. Not turning his head, he flung out his hand and away his rod of iron flew. It whistled through the air like an arrow towards Prithamon. In the last instant it swerved, punching through Pradmet’s throne just beside his head. It continued out the other side, glancing off the stairs and destroying a good portion of the building behind them.

Pradmet sprawled from his seat and bellowed at Prithamon, shaking his fists; but the magic wielder did not move a muscle, so intently was he focussed upon the battle. Realising the futility of his efforts, Pradmet patted down his ceremonial garments and reseated himself, indignant at the melon-sized hole beside his ear.

Without his weapon, Leopold feared their fates sealed, but Salu had not finished. Rather, he was just getting started, for it was at that moment that he called his magic into play.

‘Stay down!’ he roared, and he struck his arms out straight from his body. With his muscles taut and his fists knotted tightly he spun full circle, and the air shrieked as magic burst upon it.

An invisible knife sliced through the air, and everything at chest height was cleft in two.

The courtyard fell quiet in an instant—all the clattering of weapons, shouting of voices and slapping of sandalled feet—all were hushed in that dreadful instant.

The noises that followed were the meaty thuds of thousands of torsos falling to the stones, and the legs and waists toppling after them. The fountains of blood spraying across the courtyard were breathtaking in a very literal way, for Leopold’s chest was paralysed by the horror.

The magical spell passed to the edge of the courtyard, and there it stopped where Pradmet’s sorcerers remained on guard. Perfectly synchronised, they held out their palms and blocked Salu’s spell of destruction in its tracks. Then, they lowered their hands as one, as if rehearsed to the finest detail.

Long moments later, Leopold realised they were saved, for every Eudan soldier bar one lay dead. The lone survivor stood upright in the middle of the courtyard, having bent to retrieve his fumbled weapon at the critical moment. Seeing the slaughter around him—the squirming, gasping bodies; the trembling hands reaching upwards for help as their life-blood poured out—he dropped his weapon again and ran screaming. He clambered over his countrymen as if they were stepping stones, and disappeared into a far corner where he ducked and hid whimpering.

Captain Orrell had missed the sight, for he was too busy keeping his hands pressed to his wound, with his teeth clenched defiantly as he kneeled in his own blood. His sword lay by his side, glazed in slippery red fluid. If any man could staunch his blood loss by sheer willpower alone, it would be the captain, but even his indomitable strength was beginning to wane.