Michael Foster - She Who Has No Name

While the old man kept his eye on their path ahead, Samuel put his elbows onto his knees and cradled his head,pulling up his hood to keep out the light. Struggling with the Argum Stone had left him shivering and drained. It would take some time for him to expel its wearying effects.

They passed the port cities of northern Turia and each one seemed to be intact and free of invaders. Indeed, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Nevertheless, the trio of magicians kept their noses due south and remained set for Cintar. Goodfellow was as keen as mustard to have his turns at the helm and,each time old Tudor sat down for a rest, he was quick to spring his spells into place before Samuel had need to think of any excuses. The passing fishing vessels eyed them with disbelief, for the sight of three bedraggled magicians surging southwards would have been cause for much talk in the sultry port taverns. Heedless of everything, they coursed their way home; three tiny figures on the lip of the sea.

Never in memorable history had so many miserable and disparaged faces filled the venerable Order chambers. The room was filled with the new Lords of the Order,appointed since the affair with Master Ash had destroyed most of the room and many of the old Lords in it. Samuel now knew most of them personally and, for a short time after the episode with Ash, he had enjoyed being a Lord, riding high on the initial wave of excitement after his great deed.

Despite that initial burst of interest, he had not enjoyed his time on the Council, for they spent endless hours deliberating the most trivial of points, seeming to speak much and achieve little. Samuel had requested that someone more experienced take his place, but old Grand Master Anthem would not have it. The calculating old magician wanted Samuel there, watching and listening, ready to voice his concerns if the stubborn Turians on the Council got up to any mischief. While Samuel was in favourwith Anthem,he was an invaluable tool- and Samuel knew he was being used as such-but given he had little choicein the matter,he had longsincegrown indifferent. Anthem always meant well, even if hismethodswere sometimes as devious and convoluted as the Turians themselves.

Gallivan, Tudor and Anthem himself were also present. They were now the last of the fabled Lions of Cintar and,while they did not occupy seats on the Council (and declared they did not want to), their presence alone reflected the grim nature ofCintar’scurrent predicament.

Lomar, the dark-skinned magician from the Kabush marshlands and Samuel’s long-time friend, was seated, also looking far more grim than usual. Lomar had led the Order in those early days after their numbers had been decimated, but now Jacobs held the mantle of High Lord. In direct contrast to the normally light-hearted Lomar, Jacobs was a humourless and pragmatic man. He and Samuel had had their differences in the past, and the man was as stubborn and frustrating an Imperial as there could be, but he had done well since taking up the seat, considering the circumstances, and Samuel could easily think of worse choices.

Rubrick, Quimbus, Sandringham, Nottingsworth and Kalbak were the remaining Lords in the room. Normally, they numbered twelve, but the war had taken its toll and they could not even find time to elect more to their numbers from the dwindling stock of magicians in the city. These days, thankful of an extra opinion, they would allow anyone who was available into the discussions. Lastly, there was Master Celios, the great Seer of Cintar. His hair had grown thinner in recent times, now just a thin veil of reddish scrap fringing a bald scalp. He still made dismal efforts to cover his glistening pate by folding over the little dangling hair that still remained, but the effect was even less flattering than before. Adding to that, he seemed to have grown excited and irritable, with his eyes darting around the room as if tracking acrobatic horseflies.

‘Our situation is looking grim,’ Grand Master Anthem admitted, burying his face momentarily into his cupped hands, before resurfacing to scan the magicians around him with weary eyes. As always, his wispy white eyebrows hung down low, but the pure blue eyes that looked out from under them had never looked so troubled.

The Magicians’ Council sat assembled around the chamber, while pageboys and servants stood behind in the shadows, prepared to fetch food and drink, or run any errand that could spontaneously arise.

They had been deliberating the situation for hours now, and with little resolve. They had all hastily gathered the very moment that the three magicians had abandoned their little boat at the city docks and had come hurrying up to the palace, lifting up their ragged robe hems and ascending the many palace steps as fast as they could-and they had been locked in discussion ever since. It had been a long and arduous trip to the city and Samuel had been hoping for at least a good night’s rest before launching into any deliberation, but rest would have to wait. They had been granted the luxury of a basin to wash their faces and a change of robes and, for the time being, that would have to suffice.

Despite all the grim news, it had been an uplifting moment when Samuel saw Grand Master Anthem and Gallivan come striding into the chambers with haggard but determined faces. The two had obviously survived the battle at Rampeny unharmed and had even managed to flee overland and arrive back several days before them.

Old Tudor had revealed the details of their journey to the gathering, but it seemed much had been happening even in the few days since Anthem had returned and there was now little to report that was not already known. As soon as the palace officials had learned of the desert people’s invasion, Cintar had become a flurry of vexation and consternation. While the generals and officials of the palace worried and debated, the city folk had caught wind of the situation and chaos in the streets had ensued. The Royal Guard was kept busymovingthe people along,and the Empress gave daily announcements in an effort to calm their fears.

Since then, reports had been coming in almost hourly of other battles across outer territories-each of themculminating incolossal lossesfor the Turians. The invaders were summarily destroying what remained of the Empire and were working their way towards inner Turia and the capital day by day. At the rate they were progressing, and with the sorry state of the remaining Imperial forces, there seemed to be little that could be done to halt their march towards Cintar. At the very least, it seemed the outermost lands would need to be abandoned in favour of an intensified defence.

The Gartens seemed to have withdrawn back into the north out of concern for their own safety, but,with the chaos of the last week,it was difficult to confirm anything with complete confidence.

‘We must meet with the Empress immediately,’ Grand Master Tudor proclaimed in his tired old voice. ‘We need a coordinated and immediate response to this new threat.’

‘We’ve been in nothing else but meetings,with the Empress and everyone!’ Lord Sandringham responded, slapping the table with both hands. ‘We need to act now and stop these desert barbarians in one swift movement!’

‘Wouldthat we could, Lord Sandringham,’ Gallivan told the eagle-nosed magician, ‘but these invaders seem to be far from barbarians. Their attacks are expertly planned and precisely executed. They are far more numerous than we can hope to match. They seem to be well organised in the art of war and have obviously been amongst us for some time, gathering information and intelligence. I’m sure they have agents in the city even now; probably in the palace, also. They seem to have the greater advantage in every way.’