The Young Magician (The Legacy Trilogy) (60 page)

Past the farms and fields Samuel flew. In the icy wind, he kicked his steed over and over until it frothed at the mouth. As the campsite rounded into view, Ash could be seen shouting and calling his men from their tents and breakfasts and a heavy wagon was quickly being harnessed. The great shape of the Argum Stone could be seen, roped flat upon it.

As Samuel neared, Ash’s men armed themselves with picks and shovels and came running towards him. They were clearly not trained soldiers and Samuel had no time to squander dealing with them. He sent a spell ahead of himself—a compression of air that hit the men with a
whoomp
, kicking up a jet of snow and knocking them senseless to the ground. His horse jumped clear over them and continued on.

Ash was climbing upon the wagon while the last of his men finished hitching the horses. ‘Keep your distance!’ he roared as Samuel pulled his horse to a stop. ‘You’re proving to be a thorn in my side, Magician!’

‘You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this,’ Samuel called back. He actually felt a smile on his face. ‘Say goodbye to whatever evil gods you worship.’

Ash drew a small vessel from inside his cloak. He held it up a moment, scrutinising it closely. A greenish liquid could be seen slopping around inside.

‘Suddan-ani!
’ Ash then spoke and pointed a long finger towards Samuel.

It was all the warning Samuel needed and he threw himself from his horse at the faintest gathering of a spell. A brilliant beam of light shot out from the vial as Samuel rolled to the ground. With a screaming shriek, the horse dropped beside him in two kicking halves. Its steaming innards spewed out from its severed body like enormous, lurching worms boiling from their nest and Ash laughed aloud at the sight.

Samuel had no time to ponder the strange spell. He regained his feet and sprang high, powering his leap with magic, kicking Ash in the teeth and landing atop the roped artefact. The tall magician recoiled, clutching his bloody mouth with a wolfish yelp. Samuel kicked him again and Ash toppled headfirst from the wagon onto the turned earth. The remaining men had now scattered from the wagon and were bolting up towards the roadway as fast as their legs would carry them.

‘You think you’re so great,’ Ash hissed from the ground, spitting blood and climbing back onto his feet, ‘but your pathetic Order of Magicians is nothing. I have the power of the Ancients in my grasp!
Amun-morbayah!
’ He yelled the last word, an ancient word trembling with age-old power, and Samuel felt his feet fill with pain as the artefact beneath him was suddenly white hot, scorching the wagon and searing his boots; hissing like quenched iron and burning straight through to the soles of his feet. Samuel leapt from the wagon and tumbled into the snow, shovelling it around his feet by the handful to quell the pain. As the feeling eased, he found Ash had already drawn another vial from one of his hidden pockets. Its luminous contents could be seen splashing around inside as the tall magician murmured furiously into it.

‘Nothing will stop me from killing you!’ Samuel said defiantly, standing and flicking flecks of ice from his garments. He settled his mind and began to gather energy as calmly as he could. He would be ready when Ash struck next. ‘You killed Leila and you killed my family! No matter how many strange spells you employ, your time in this world has come to an end.’

‘Very dramatic, young man, but I have no idea of what you are talking about and
you
obviously have no idea of what you’re dealing with.’

Ash then called aloud another incomprehensible word and another beam struck out from his vial. This time, Samuel was ready. His magical shield flew into place to protect him from the spell, doubled and fortified as he had learned from Tabbet, but it was still not enough. The screeching beam began piercing his defence like a finger poking its way through sheets of wet paper. Samuel realised he only had moments before his spell was completely broken, so he concentrated all his remaining power into that tiny spot where the beam was focused. At the last moment, he thrust his shield aside with all his mind and might. His plan worked and Ash’s beam skipped off to his left and struck the ground with a great explosion, throwing up dirt for a hundred paces and creating a long, dark furrow amidst the pale snow.

‘Impressive,’ Ash noted. ‘Little wonder you managed to best Tabbet. I guess I should have let you be in your little village, but it’s too late for that now.’ The man opened his palm to reveal another small vial—this one seemed to contain a blackish fluid that clung stubbornly to the glass around it.

Samuel would not let the man have any more time to ready his strange magic and sent a half-dozen spells of burning energy screaming towards Ash, but it was already too late. Ash only had to whisper into his hand and an unholy wind sprang up. The distance between them was too great and Samuel’s spells slowed in their path, then stopped as the magical wind became a howling gale. They struggled vainly against the mad wind, until finally reversing their course and flying backwards, passing overhead and landing in the fields far behind him, exploded with dull booms in the roaring wind.

He desperately tried to think of some spell to negate the wind, but Ash’s magic was alien and would not be turned. Grit and ice bit into Samuel’s face, blinding him. He tried to cast a spell, but all he could see and hear and feel was the almighty wind, striking him and biting him on all sides. A sudden shape loomed before him through the swirling sand and Samuel had no time to act. He tried to escape aside, but the thing smashed into him, cracking bones and throwing him backwards. A great weight began piling up on top of him and squeezing the life out of him. Above it all—above his own cries and even above the thunderous noise of the wind—Ash’s laughter echoed on and on until there was nothing left but darkness and utter screaming silence.

Voices came distantly to Samuel. Cool air touched his skin and entered his desperate lungs and hands were pulling him from under the earth. He coughed up sand and dirt while hands lifted him and brushed away the soil from his face. His body felt pain with every movement and he felt as if his ribs were poking through his skin.

‘Samuel, my good friend,’ someone called. ‘Are you alive? Oh, this is terrible! What has Mr Cervantes done to you? Shall we go after him?’

‘No,’ Samuel wheezed. They would only be slaughtered. ‘I will kill him…myself,’ he managed before passing out with pain.

Samuel had long and uncomfortable dreams. He dreamed of Ash leering over him and Leila. Ash kept trying to pull her away, but he held onto her with all his might. Then Leila and Ash were gone. Dark shadows awaited at the corners of his sight and always he was being pulled downward through the earth, being sucked under where nightmarish creatures waited. Howls of laughter echoed all around as he desperately clawed at the earth that worked to swallow him. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of something huge shambling towards him. It was a terrible and evil thing, immensely powerful and full of hate. It was coming—day by day it drew nearer—and it would eat the world.

‘Father! Father!
’ the thing was calling out in a dry and raspy voice as it trembled closer. ‘
I need you, Father! Don’t die! Don’t leave me here alone!
’

Samuel was frozen in place and, as the thing neared, he could see that it had a human face atop its enormous misshapen body—and the face was clearly his.

‘Father!
’ Samuel hissed.

He opened his eyes and looked up at the roof as thunder sounded from the storm outside. The room was grey and empty of life. He recognised it from before—the velvet curtains, the drawers, the tall oval mirror. He was in Rudderford’s guest room. Lightning flickered outside and lit the room for an instant as the rain spattered and tapped lightly against the window.

Father is dead
, Samuel thought and continued to stare up at the ceiling.
Leila is dead, too.
Time passed slowly and the rain continued to fall outside.

Pale morning light shone into the room when Samuel next awoke. He went to roll over, and a sharp pain quickly told him his chest was badly hurt. He lay still, taking shallow breaths until the pain had lessened, and then he formed a spell to examine the injury. Several ribs were cracked and broken and his skull was also rimmed with fractures. They were all many days old. He set some spells in place to help remove the dead and clotted matter and to help speed his healing. His head ached with every tiny movement and he found it difficult to ignore the pain.

He would go after Ash as soon as he could, but it was pointless unless he could formulate some kind of defence against the man’s bizarre magic. Healthy, he had proved much less than a match. Injured as he was, he was helpless. If he had just been able to summon the same power he had used against the brigands, then he was sure Ash would have been no match. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, or perhaps it was the loss of Leila. Whatever it was, he had just not been able to find the power he had needed. At the one time in his life he really needed to be strong, he had failed.

He would have to wait until he was sufficiently healed, perhaps another few days at this rate, and he would then return to Cintar. There, he would no doubt find Ash gloating over his new treasure. This time, Samuel would be better prepared. There would be no more surprises. Ash would pay for all that he had done. Not even hell itself would stop Samuel from extracting his revenge. When the man was dead, and only then, would Samuel allow himself to rest. Until then, every thought, every breath, every heartbeat would be dedicated to the death of Master Ash.

CHAPTER NINE

Return to Cintar

SAMUEL LOOKED OUT over the rolling sea crests. The bitter ocean showered his face with freezing sheets of spray as the ship drove through each heaving wave, one after another. Still, he did not afford himself the luxury of sheltering below deck. Somehow, the discomfort seemed fitting.

He was at least a week behind Ash—it had taken that long for his body to heal enough so he could hold himself atop Jess.

Rudderford’s men had arrived just in time to see Samuel blasted into a shallow digging and buried alive by Ash’s gale spell. They had rescued him as Ash had sped off atop the wagon, bearing his prize away with all haste. They had been wholly amazed when they found Samuel still living, covered in debris and earth. They were even more astounded to see him riding away again a week later, almost as if nothing had happened.

Jess had carried him to the small riverside town of Heathshed, where Samuel had hired a river-barge to carry them both downstream, throwing down a pile of Count Rudderford’s coins to the wide-eyed boatman. The magician’s dark mood brought few questions from the tattered old man, and the slow-flowing river did nothing to soothe the burning hatred in Samuel’s heart.

They had eventually arrived in the port town of New Garlen where, locals said, a great vessel had arrived, like none they had ever seen. It had been enormous, with more sails hanging from the great masts than many of them could count. A strange fellow had then appeared, accompanied by a dozen armed men. They seemed to be guarding some precious thing lashed to his wagon, but no one had been able to get near enough to see what it was. The vessel had bloomed into life and scores of men had hurried ashore in their longboats to help recover the men and their cargo. As soon as they were aboard, the many great sails all rose as one and the ship had surged out from the bay.

It had taken most of Count Rudderford’s purse, but Samuel had finally managed to buy passage for himself and his beast on the only vessel leaving that day and he quickly set out after Ash—for Cintar.

Samuel spent his time looking over the waves and pondering Ash’s strange new form of magic. Never before had he heard of magic being drawn from fluids. The trigger words that sparked the spells were strange and charged with power—which made Samuel suspect they were from the Ancient Lick. If so, it meant Ash had somehow discovered a key to unlocking the lost tongue. Spells born from the Old Tongue or tethered by willpower alone would be of no match. To defeat Ash, Samuel would need to plan carefully. If he could only gain some power of the Ancients for himself, or even learn to control his evasive, terrible outbursts of power, then perhaps he could finally kill the man. Samuel savoured the thought for a moment, envisaging killing his enemy painfully and deliberately, before reality spoiled his delightful diversion. Logic foretold that a methodical and meticulous method would be best. Ash had proved cunning and resourceful in more ways than one, and there was no way to gauge exactly how powerful a magician he was. Chances could not be taken. As it was, the strange purple weaves of his magic tore normal spells to shreds. Samuel did not want any more surprises.

With so much time and so little to do but sit and gaze out to sea, Samuel spent long hours thinking of Leila. He could not help it. He wished he could somehow shut her out of his memory altogether, for the vivid image of her blood-soaked body made him choke with sadness, but he could not. Not even his disciplined magician’s training could stop dreadful thoughts from charging back into him without warning, flooding him with sorrow, overwhelming him. He could not believe she was really gone.