Michael Foster - She Who Has No Name

They were given no time to rest, even when they made the edge of the valley, as the old magician was already starting up the rugged incline, scampering over rocks and logs, up the slippery shale, darting about like a mountain goat. The roar and clatter of the battlefield still sounded strong behind them as they climbed the hill, broken by the occasional bellow from Anthem’s summoned monstrosity.

‘Do you think Eric is still alive?’ Goodfellow asked, struggling up the rise.

‘I hope so,’ Samuel muttered back darkly, ‘so I can wring his neck when we catch up with him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘He left us. Didn’t you notice? While everyone else was struggling to hold on during that wind I summoned up, he used his Journey spell to sneak off.’

‘I thought we would have felt such a spell. The Grand Masters didn’t mention it.’

‘I definitely felt something,although in all the excitement I’m not sure exactly what, but it felt suspiciously like Eric used his Great Spell to leave us behind.’

‘But he wouldn’t just do that, would he?’

‘I would have hoped not, but I guess that remains to be seen,’ Samuel replied.

‘Quiet, you fools!’ Tudor hissed back at them. ‘Keep up!’ he ordered, as he darted further up the steep rise.

The going was slow, even for them, as they struggled to keep their footing on the treacherous stones. Samuelscambled, making sure not to let his feet slip into the cracks, and the jagged rocks clattered and wobbled as he clambered across them.

He took a moment to catch his breath, but a shout of surprise from Grand Master Tudor had him looking up in a panic. There was a flash of magic and a body fellatthe old man’s feet.

‘Defend yourselves!’ Tudor cried as other men, all cloaked in grey hoods, came springing out from their hiding places amongst the trees and rocks.

A spell from Goodfellow had several of them dead and Grand Master Tudor had taken care of the rest before Samuel had even managed to steer his hand into his pocket.

‘For goodness sake!’ old Tudor said, on observing him still standing as if rooted to the spot. ‘Open your eyes, Samuel, or you’ll be the death of me!’

‘Who are they?’ Goodfellow asked.

‘Assassins!’ the wizened magician spat with disdain. He kicked the body at his feet, before ducking down to pull the cloth from the dead man’s face. Revealed beneath was a dark-skinned face, tattooed on the cheeks and pierced in the nose and ears. The old man bit his lip with worry at the sight. ‘We need to get over there,’ Tudor told them, nodding towards an outcrop that was bereft of trees. ‘I want to see what’s going on below.’

Several minutes of rocky scrambling led to them climbing out onto the jutting ledge, before they finally reached the tip of the overhanging stone. The valley lay spread out below them, with Rampeny smouldering far to the south and the valley mouth gaping far to the north.

‘That’s our answer,’ Tudor stated, pointing towards the north. ‘Someone else has joined this war. No wonder the Gartens were in such a panic.’

The valleyfloorwas still seething like an ants’ nest, although now there were large patches here and there that were dark and still, clotted with hordes of the fallen. The middle of the valley was filled with Gartens, but their numbers had also fallen considerably to a fraction of their initial size. To the north of them, driving them south along the valley, was a third army. Their colours were mixed-browns and whites and browns and greys-and they moved lightly, as if unarmoured, which was strange for any force on the modern battlefield. At the far south, pushing north from Rampeny were the supposed Gartens that had taken the town, yet it seemed they were not Gartens at all, for they fought side by side with the newcomers and attacked Garten and Turian alike. In the middle, the Turians and the Gartens were being whittled away, set against each other and drowning amongst the superior numbers of this newcomer that had plugged both ends of the valley.

There was no sign of Anthem’s summoned beast, but his magic was still coursing across the valley in rippling arcs. Several long shapes darted, running rampant amongst the men, and Samuel guessed it was more of the strange giantcreatures, although he could see nothing of them clearly from this distance.

‘Who are they?’ Goodfellow asked, but old Tudor just shook his head.

‘I don’t know, but I can guess. These assassins have the look of the desert people of the great waste…but it makes no sense. They are waterless nomads. I don’t know how they could have assembled such a huge force and directed this battle with such accuracy. They waited for us to meet the Gartens and then they struck from both sides to force us together. Somehow, they overcame General Warren’s men and dressed enough of their own in Turian armour to creep close enough to block us in. A perfect and deadly execution of a cunning and expert plan.’

‘I have never heard of them. Perhaps these desert people are not the barbarians you expect?’ Samuel said.

‘Perhaps, but I have been to those lands myself and these are not the same people that I saw. Someone has been training them in the art of war, and to arrange all this so flawlessly, they must have been planning and watching us for some time. They knew everything about us; where we would be and how we would act. They came ready to assassinate each of us Lions and they have very nearly been successful. Our new enemy is sly and brutal.’

‘What do we do now?’ Goodfellow asked. ‘They are still fighting down there…but there looks to be little chance.’

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Tudor stated. ‘Janus charged me with getting you two back to Cintar and that’s just what I’ll do. As he said, we Lions are done, but you two are the new strength of the Order-young Lions, if you will. I know you are not even true Turians, but Anthem taught us to temper our pride long ago. It seems a simple lesson, but time and time again I must remind myself not to be such a stubborn old mule. Now, we must reach Cintar and warn the Empire of what has transpired.’

‘Why would the desert people do this?’ Goodfellow asked. ‘If they have never been involved in Empire affairs, why would they attack now?’

‘That remains to be seen. The Empire is in turmoil and both the Gartensand ushave been worn down in these last few years. Yes, if I were planning to do something like this, now would be the time to strike.’ Then he turned from the scene below and adjusted his cruddy,black robes. ‘Come. We have far to go and the odds are, there are more ambushes set in these hills. They will want to catch each and every escapee of the battle, so no word of their presence reaches Cintar. They will want to maintain their secrecy for as long as they can.’

Samuel judged that the old magician had used a considerable portion of his magic to climb the hill and his power was beginning to wane. A few more minutes’rest would see the old man recover well. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect-’ Samuel began.

‘Then don’t give any,’ Tudor said, cutting him off. ‘Let’s go. I will cover our movements as best I can.’

With that, a spell bloomed out from the man like an explosion of streamers and glimmering dust, before it settled discreetly into place, forming a wall of shadows around them. Samuel recognised its nature immediately, for it was Grand Master Tudor’s speciality-Concealment. The arrangement of the weaves went straight into Samuel’s uncanny memory and, yet again, he found himself in awe at the beauty of such a masterfully constructed work of magic. The Lions may have had their day, but there was no doubt they had left their mark upon the world.

It took them four days to find their way free from the jagged hills around Rampeny. True,as had been said, the hills were inhospitable, covered in vertical drops and abrupt cliff-faces. Shards of smooth rock jutted out from the ground all over,in places towering above them and forming labyrinthine passages.