Legacy

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Book excerpt

Prologue

The crash of hobnailed boots filled the hallway as a tight-knit group of guards stormed through the palace. Their shields where up, ready, swords drawn and spears levelled. The early morning sun glinted off their polished armour, the growing heat of the day embracing the soldiers as they ran, coaxing beads of sweat to drip from under their helmets and down their faces. The guards, however, had no intentions of stopping.

            From the neighbouring corridors and palace rooms, they could hear the sounds of battle raging. Screams of pain, bloodthirsty war cries and the pillagers’ whoops of adulation let loose within the halls. The men and women revelling in their bloodlust and newfound riches had once been loyal, and the guardsmen knew it. All of them knew the punishment for desertion, especially when faced with the enemy.

            The formation followed the winding corridor until it opened out into a huge feasting hall. The walls were covered in monumental mosaics showing the glories of the Kingdom of Dazscor. Now the chiselled faces of the kings and queens of old stared proudly down on a scene of chaos. The feasting tables had been overturned, the ornaments scattered and broken on the floor.

            The looters, picking through the debris and stripping the corpses of the courtiers they had found there, eyed the guards hungrily as the formation skidded to a halt in front of them. One of the looters, a tall bald man with a blood-splattered face began to walk slowly towards the bristling knot of spears that had emerged from the corridor. As he approached, other looters began to draw in behind, hands creeping towards sword hilts. Stopping a few metres from the guards, he spread his arms wide and grinned broadly.

            ‘Brothers, sisters, welcome to our court! You have nothing to fear from us, we are comrades, all of us. We have all loyally done our duty for king and country and now some other fat-arse wants to take his crown. Why should we stand in the way? Come lay down your arms and join us, let us take our share of the spoils before the new order takes it for themselves. The royals are all dead—we have nothing to fear from them now!’

            ‘I would disagree with you on that!’

            The guard’s front ranks parted to let a smaller figure wearing much more elaborate armour than the others and sporting a green cloak emblazoned with a red rose, pass through. She possessed long auburn curls and an upright, regal demeanour. She stood, feet set defiantly apart.

            ‘Oh, Princess, had I known it was you, I’d never have dreamed of saying such things in the presence of your divine majesty …’

            The looter’s voice oozed sarcasm as he fell into a grossly over-exaggerated bow, the men behind him howling with laughter as he did so.

            The princess continued to stare at the man, the icy ferocity of her glare stifling the laughter of the mutineers before her. ‘I don’t care what you think of me, or my father. I’m not here to defend him. All I need to know is if you’re going to let me and my troops go on our way, or whether you and your filthy accomplices wish to die?’

            The looter captain’s wide smirk remained as he drew his sword and started to pace back and forth. ‘So, the little precious princess wants to play soldiers, does she? You certainly came dressed for the occasion. How much do you reckon that pretty, shiny armour would sell for, boys? I’ll enjoy taking it from you, from your dead body if I have to, though I’d rather you were alive for the experience.’

            He lunged forward, his sword point aimed at the princess’ throat. Around him, his men surged forward, leaping at the guards, trying to tear their shields away. The formation, however, held firm.

The guards took one step back as the tide of looters hit, then shrugged them off, spears snaking out from in-between the shields, ripping open throats and lodging in bellies.

            The looter captain’s eyes were filled with hunger as his sword flew through the air, his gaze fixed on his target … but then the princess was gone. Nimbly, she sidestepped the clumsy blow, hand slipping to her shoulder where the hilt of the sabre was barely visible through the thick, cascading curls. The sabre whistled through the air, gouging a deep red gash in the looter’s back. He screamed and fell to his knees, silenced as the sabre took his head.

            Wordlessly, the guards re-formed around their princess and continued across the hall; the remaining looters scattered into nearby corridors. She approached a mosaic behind the raised royal table: a queen with arms outstretched in welcome. Carefully, she pressed a jewel set in the centre of the queen’s mosaic belt, which sunk into the stone behind. There was a dull scraping as the mosaic split to reveal a hidden staircase plunging into darkness.

            The vault was filled with an eerie green-blue light that flickered on the walls and gave a sense of drowning. The sea of treasure that filled the space and disappeared into the recesses of the vault glimmered in the strange light, but was barely recognizable. Gold, silver and jewels made up the hoard. Imperial guards were rushing around, bringing more boxes of precious stuffs to add to the treasure trove from a side passage, their contents spilling out as they desperately tried to finish their task.

            They skirted around the edge of the vault’s antechamber, avoiding a large marble altar where a pale figure and his hooded assistant were chanting strange words and drawing odd symbols in the air … the place where the mysterious light emanated from.

            There was a clatter as the princess and her guards entered the vault from the central passageway, to be met by a fraught-looking bureaucrat trying desperately to organise the madness.

‘Your Highness, what are you doing here? It’s not safe, you should be making your way to the harbour!’

            ‘Where’s my father? I thought that he would be down here?’

            ‘No, he’s already left for the ship. Please, you must go; the spell they are casting is far too unpredictable for you to be here.’

            ‘What is going on here, Lord Chamberlain? Why are these men not defending the people of this city?’

            ‘The king gave orders for his treasure hoard to be moved here and protected by enchantment. The Aramorians are already assaulting the walls and half of our men at least have turned against us. The city is lost and we must safeguard Dazscor’s legacy for the future!’

            There was a deep, reverberating hum from the altar as the light swelled, causing all of the people in the vault to shield their faces. As the light died back down to its unsettling glow, the princess blinked and rubbed her eyes.

            The figure of the sorcerer was still standing at the altar, arms desperately circling as he continued to trace symbols in the air, shouting words of power at the top of his voice. His assistant dashed from the altar to the Lord Chamberlain, clutching a large round object in her hand. ‘Here, someone must take this to the king. Hurry, we can’t control the spell for much longer!’

            ‘One of my guards will take it, Ebor!’ The princess beckoned one of the guardsmen, who stepped forward. ‘Take this object to the king as fast as you can. He’ll be making his way to the Royal Barge, so you’ll have no trouble finding him.’

            ‘But, Your Highness, my place is by your side …’

            ‘I gave you an order Ebor, now go! I shall not be far behind you, and I’ll have your comrades to protect me. Go!’

            Ebor dropped his spear and shield, took the object, and sprinted down the side passage.

            ‘Now, Your Majesty must go too …’

            The Lord Chamberlain’s words were cut short as another surge of power rippled from the altar. This time, a large crack appeared in the ceiling of the antechamber. The princess’ guards barely managed to drag her out of the way as a huge chunk of the ceiling collapsed, crushing the Lord Chamberlain beneath it.

            The guards tried to drag the princess behind the altar, towards the side passage, their feet slipping on coins and jewels as they moved.

            The sorcerer’s voice was drowned out by the rumbling and crackling of the spell he was trying to contain. His assistant, tugging at the hem of her cloak, tried to free herself from the rubble.

Another swell of light and the spell exploded, knocking everyone in the vault and antechamber off their feet.

The princess was thrown further into the vault and she struck her head on a treasure chest. She blinked, her vision swimming before her. She could barely see the guards scattered about her, trying to rise to their feet, the body of the sorcerer lying crumpled nearby. Then … darkness.

Chapter I

There’s a particular freshness to the air at that time of year when Winter starts to give way to Spring. This effect is particularly noticeable in the early hours of the day, when the sunlight is new and clean. When the world is still trying to rouse itself from a night of slumber. Breathing in this air focuses the mind, quells those annoying erratic thoughts that float unbidden through conscious thought. This natural changing of the seasons is the perfect time to dwell on changes that we might make to our own lives.

            This, at least, was what Torben thought as he walked across the field that morning. He’d always seen himself as a pseudo-philosopher, and he often felt that he was closest to answering life’s deepest questions when carrying out mundane tasks, particularly early in the morning.

            As he walked across the field, dipping a hand into the sack around his neck, pulling forth a handful of seeds and scattering them across the field, he could feel himself lost in the monotony of the task. Dip and scatter, dip and scatter, dip and scatter.

            The only thing that could distract him from his thoughts were the distant sounds of Master Amos further up the field as he guided the plough through the earthen sea. He steered the oxen skillfully, a little left, then a little right, picking the best course, leaving the straightest, truest furrows in the wake of the plough. You could tell that Master Amos had been living and breathing farming since he’d been born.

            Torben’s mind continued to wander. By the end of the working day, he’d have done enough thinking to solve all the world’s problems, at least thrice over. That is, if he actually came to any concrete conclusions. As with all of his musing, Torben always seemed to be on the precipice of a breakthrough, only to be distracted by the next question that swam into his consciousness.

            By the time he reached the end of the field, the thread of philosophy had turned from the elemental nature of seasonal change to the still unanswered question of where exactly he’d left his dominos. He reached into the sack and scattered the seeds amongst freshly turned sod.

            ‘All out, Master.’

            Master Amos raised a hand in acknowledgement from the upper end of the field as he brought the oxen round and started to drive them back towards the gate. Torben strolled forward and sat with his back against one of the many trees that lined the limits of Master Amos’ field, and, with a sigh of relief, removed the sack from around his neck and laid it on the ground.

            He didn’t have to look to know that his neck and left shoulder had been rubbed raw by the thick hemp sack. He rubbed both meditatively, mulling over the prospect of what the rest of the day would bring. More walking up and down the fields behind the plough, dip and scatter, dip and scatter. It was enough to make a man go crazy.

            ‘Give us a hand with this lot, lad.’ Master Amos had drawn the plough and its pair of oxen level with Torben and the tree that he was leaning against.

As Torben stood, his shadow enveloped the much smaller figure of Master Amos, who must have been at least a foot shorter than him. Torben lifted the haft of the plough and Master Amos unhitched the oxen, then led them to a nearby post. As he tethered them, Torben could hear him whispering softly, keeping them calm.

            He was a kindly, ageing man. To be honest, Torben had no idea how old Master Amos actually was. For as long as he’d known him, Amos had existed in a perpetual state of elderliness. His weather-beaten face had barely registered change but, of late, Torben had noticed that he walked with more difficulty, and that his back seemed more bent with fatigue.

            ‘Good lad,’ Master Amos said as Torben brought over an armful of fodder to lay down before the oxen. ‘I reckon we’ll get this next field and the one up top done by the end of the day, if we’re lucky. It’s meant to rain tomorrow, that’d be bad news for ploughing.’

            Like all farmers, Master Amos seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to predicting the weather. Torben liked to think that it was all blind guesswork, but he’d lost count of the amount of times that Master Amos had predicted the weather and been right.

As Torben straightened, Master Amos lowered himself gingerly onto the ground next to the tree. He began unwrapping a cloth bundle and proffered a chunk of bread to Torben when he sat down next to him. Torben drew a small knife from a sheath attached to his belt and handed it to the older man, who’d taken a wedge of hard cheese from the bundle. Wordlessly, he took the blade and divided the cheese in two, handing Torben half, as well as the knife.

            Master Amos was a man of few words. There’d been many days when Amos hadn’t spoken a word, neither to Torben nor to his long-suffering wife. It wasn’t that he was unfriendly, far from it; he was one of the kindest people Torben had ever come across. Amos, it seemed, didn’t feel that small-talk was a necessary part of existence.

            Torben picked up a water skin that he’d dropped at their feet and took a large mouthful. He wiped water droplets from his mouth and passed the skin to Amos. ‘Are you going to bring in any more labour for the rest of the season?’

            Amos looked at him, weariness heavily lining his face. He sighed deeply and ran his hands through a greasy tangle of silver hair. Torben new exactly what the answer would be.

            ‘Don’t think I’ll be able to scrape together the brass to do that this year. I know that last year I said that I’d get some hired labour, but …’

            ‘I know, it was a tough winter again,’ Torben replied dejectedly.

            Master Amos looked away, the weary, worried expression still lining his face. It had been a tough winter, and he was starting to wonder how many he had left. ‘Look, Torben, I know that you must find life here with us a little suffocating, but until I can pull things back from the brink, there’s nothing that I can do.’

            Torben didn’t answer, but stared despondently into the distance. The field laid along the side of a hill and offered an excellent view across the surrounding countryside. From this vantage point, he could see the small collection of buildings that made up Master Amos’ farmstead. Beyond the farm were the rooftops of Bywater Village and beyond those the sprawling valley that made up Burndale. Barely perceptible tendrils of smoke curled up from village chimneys, the only sign of life in the landscape.

            The fact that Master Amos couldn’t again afford to bring in temporary labour to help out on the farm meant that Torben was, for all intents and purposes, tied to the farm. He’d been telling himself for the last two years that once he got the money together for hired help, he’d go off and explore, stretch his legs and let the road whisk him away, far from Bywater and the depressing little valley. He’d never set foot further than seven miles from Bywater and had never been to the borders of Burndale.

            But three harsh winters in a row meant that Master Amos was closer than ever to toppling over the brink, into destitution. If Torben left, it would be a death sentence for the old man, and he couldn’t do that to him, not after all of the kindness he and his wife had shown him.

            ‘Right lad, let’s get on; the fields won’t sow themselves thou knows.’ Amos looked at the forlorn youth next to him. Torben’s blue eyes stared emptily across the valley as wind tugged at the heap of messy brown curls on his head. He could tell that Torben was lost deep in thought, and he didn't need to guess what he was brooding about.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: C.J. Pyrah

BOOK TITLE: Legacy (The Dead God Series Book 1)

GENRE: Fantasy

PAGE COUNT: 310

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