The Amber Legacy (17 page)

Wombat changed into dry clothes while Meg stoked the fire and added a log. They ate and rested, Meg listening to Wombat’s tales of labouring on the farms south of Quick Crossing after his mother and father were killed in a house fire. ‘They say that my older brother started it when everyone was asleep,’ he said.

‘What happened to your brother?’

‘He ran away the night of the fire. Never seen him since.’

The rain increased as evening settled in. When the farmhouse roof sprang several leaks, Meg started
automatically searching for buckets and pots to catch the drips as she would at home. ‘We’re not staying, little bird,’ Wombat reminded her as he lit a rusty lantern. ‘We should pack whatever useful things we can find and get going.’

Search completed, Meg stuffed her wet clothes into her sack and waited at the door for Wombat to finish dousing the hearth. ‘Stomach,’ he reminded her, as he straightened up. ‘And cap. You’re a boy now.’

‘Who’s going to see us in the dark?’ she asked.

‘No one,’ Wombat replied. ‘Just in firelight or torchlight. You can’t take any chances, eh.’

Meg dragged the old tunic from her sack and changed into her disguise, muttering that the tunic was damp. When Wombat was satisfied that she looked masculine enough, they wrapped raincoats securely around themselves and plunged into the driving night rain.

Meg trudged in Wombat’s wake, struggling in the rain and darkness to see his huge bulk two paces ahead. The wind pulled in sharp gusts, and angled the rain so that it whipped her face. She sometimes heard water rushing along in the stream they shadowed, and glimpsed spots of light through the watery night that she assumed were farmhouse windows, but Wombat skirted them, pushing on. Her mind was flooded with thoughts of Summerbrook and her family. What were her brothers doing? She hoped that they were helping her mother, taking responsibility for the farm chores that she wasn’t there to do. She missed little Peter. Did he understand why his big sister wasn’t there? What had Emma told her mother?

And she wondered whether she was doing the right thing in chasing Treasure to save him from a dream. What if her dream was nothing more than a dream? What if Emma had instilled a false hope that she actually did have
some potential of the Blessing? She had never believed in it, even when she’d played at evoking magic, so why did she believe in it now? What had changed?

She trudged on, her nose wet and icy, her cheeks stinging, her mind wandering through her confusion. She knew what had changed her. Treasure. He made her want to believe in anything possible because she was in love with him. Treasure had brought promises of a life different from the one she had in Summerbrook—a life of excitement and mystery.

M
eg stretched in the warm, dry hay, and listened with amusement, because Wombat, sitting at the edge of the barn over a small fire, cooking, was quietly singing a ballad.

‘She saw her lover ride away, ride away to war,

And tears full bitter wept she, and sighs she cried a score,

For she’d seen the shadow with him, Death riding by his side,

And knew then that her sweet lover was taking his last ride,

Was taking his last ride.’

‘I didn’t know you could sing,’ Meg said, taking in the enticing aroma of frying eggs.

Wombat looked up. ‘So you’ve woken up, little bird?’ He lifted the skillet from the fire and slid two eggs onto a chipped green enamel plate. ‘Eat these.’

‘Where did all this come from?’ she asked, taking her breakfast eagerly.

‘The owner of this barn.’ He nodded towards the little farmhouse fifty paces away, in a stand of gum trees beside the stream. ‘Ash Hardtree.’

‘You know the owner?’

‘Worked for Ash eight years ago for a year and a half, before I hurt my back.’ Wombat broke two more eggs into the skillet. ‘We can keep the skillet and plates. Ash said she doesn’t need them. Eat, because we should be getting under way soon. The rain’s passed and the army will be moving on.’

‘Does she live out here on her own?’

‘Ash?’ Wombat asked, flipping his eggs. ‘Yes. Never married either. Said she’s never had need of a man, and wasn’t interested in family. Just wanted her own place and her own company.’

‘Then why did you work here?’

Wombat laughed. ‘Well, you could say it was mutually convenient. I needed work and a place to live and eat, and she needed a stand of trees cut down and a dam built. We struck an arrangement and that’s how it happened. Now finish eating and clean your plate in the stream.’

The sun was determined to push its feeble warmth between the grey clouds as Wombat and Meg resumed their trek. Wombat pointed out landmarks that he remembered, and named the owners of the few farms scattered across the shallow valley through which the stream kept its course.

‘The Whispering Forest is another two, maybe three days,’ he said, as they stopped to drink.

‘Have you been there, too?’ Meg asked, as she uncorked her water flask.

‘Once,’ he replied. ‘Had a small contract to gather herbs for an old man, Woody Forester. He was a strange one. He liked to think he could turn a magical potion or two from the herbs, and he made a rough
drinking brew, guaranteed to skin the inside of your throat.’

‘So you don’t believe in magic?’

Wombat packed his waterbag onto his belt. ‘Can’t say I do. Can’t say I don’t. There probably was a time, if you believe all the old ballads and stories, that there was a lot of magic. Probably even dragons. But it makes no sense now. The only magic I’ve ever seen is some old people making mumbo jumbo and some very clever youngsters with sleight of hand that makes the watcher believe something magical happened.’ Then he broke into song:

‘And all that can be said is all that can be done,

Cruel dragons rule the sky, with fires like blazing sun.

Fierce magic is their mistress, and masters have they none,

Fierce magic is their mistress, and masters have they none.

‘That’s the closest to magic I have ever been—in song,’ he said.

‘I know an old woman who can start a fire without a tinder box.’

‘Do you now?’ Wombat said. ‘And what about you?’

‘I can’t do magic,’ Meg said.

‘Do you believe in it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Good to keep an open mind,’ Wombat declared with a wink, and he shouldered his pack and started walking.

They came upon the first signs that they were nearing the Queen’s army when they spotted a squad of twelve soldiers driving a small flock of sheep and three cows
away from a farm, and carrying slaughtered chickens. In their wake, at the perimeter of the farmyard, a woman and three children were watching their livestock being requisitioned by the Queen’s brave men.

‘Bloody thieving bastards,’ Wombat muttered, veering towards the family. ‘The Queen’s so rich she should be able to send three cooked meals a day for her soldiers, but instead they scavenge off the countryside and drive all the unlucky people in their path to ruin.’

Seeing the hulking stranger and his companion, the woman retreated to her house, ushering her children before her, and slammed the door when they were safely inside. Wombat put down his sack of goods, leaned his poleaxe against the wooden slat wall, and rapped on the knotty door. ‘Lady, we’re not soldiers and we’re not Rebels. We’re just minstrels looking for a place to get a drink of water.’ No one answered. The house was silent. ‘We can pay,’ he said. ‘We’ve got food we can share. Your kids will need food, lady. We saw what the soldiers did.’

‘Go away!’ the woman shouted from within. ‘We’ve nothing left to take!’

‘We don’t want to take anything,’ Meg called out.

‘Then go away!’ the woman screamed.

Wombat shrugged. ‘This is what war does to people,’ he said, bending to retrieve his sack. ‘But we should be able to find your army by following that lot,’ indicating the direction in which the soldiers had headed. He studied Meg and added, ‘Get some mud on that face. It’s far too pretty, even for a boy.’

‘Are you just going to leave these people here?’ she challenged.

Wombat swung his sack over his shoulder. ‘It’s where they live.’

Meg scooped up a handful of dirt and rubbed it
across her cheeks and chin and forehead as they walked away from the little farmhouse.

‘Can you sing?’ Wombat asked, grinning.

Meg shrugged. ‘I guess so. I’ve never really sung a lot, except at village celebrations.’

‘Then I’ll teach you some merry songs as we follow our quarry, little bird, and you can be my minstrel boy if anyone asks who we are, or why we’re joining the army.’

‘But we’re not joining the army.’

Wombat halted and put a huge hand on Meg’s shoulder. ‘If you want to save your boyfriend, we have to get inside the army camp, and the only way of doing that is to pretend we’re joining up. All right?’

Meg nodded. That hadn’t been what she’d planned, but somehow she knew there was no point disagreeing with her big companion. Not right now.

They shadowed the soldiers and their livestock booty throughout the morning. Midday, they entered a long, narrow and deep valley, cleft by a creek that tumbled over waterfalls as it rushed towards the west and the great river. The steep and rocky slopes were covered with twisted mallee bushes defying gravity to get their purchase on soil between the rocks. Wombat stopped Meg and watched the soldiers drive the animals into the valley. ‘Why aren’t we following?’ she asked.

‘Nice place for an ambush, eh,’ he explained, rubbing his beard. ‘We know where they’re heading. We’ll skirt the hillsides and meet them on the far side.’

They climbed the rise that took them into the bush and trees above the valley. Meg was weary after the morning journey and hoped that Wombat would call a rest, but the big man moved on, weaving between the saplings and larger trunks like a great bear, sometimes startling small creatures into flight.

They emerged on the edge of the valley, following a narrow and faint trail created by wild dingoes or feral sheep. From the height, they glimpsed the Queen’s soldiers driving the animals along the edge of the creek. In the farther distance, thin columns of smoke wound into the cloud-pocked sky. Meg’s excitement grew, knowing at last that the soldiers were leading her to the army. From there, she could search for Treasure and warn him not to go into battle against the blue rider.

Wombat’s thick arm stopped her. She went to protest, until she saw his index finger pressed to his lips, ordering her silence. He pointed along the valley. At first, she couldn’t see anything, until she glimpsed a glint of metal in the bushes halfway up the slope, at least two hundred paces ahead, directly above the soldiers. ‘Who is it?’ she whispered.

‘Rebels.’

‘Shouldn’t we do something?’

‘There’s nothing we can do.’

Meg’s fascination mixed with dread as she watched the drama unfold. The Rebels were more a sense of presence in the bushes than a clear image. Perhaps they were just hiding from the soldiers. A figure detached from the bushes, a person in blue. The figure raised both arms. Meg gasped as her spine tingled, and a fireball erupted amongst the animals and soldiers by the creek. A moment later, another fiery explosion tore through the bewildered and panicking soldiers. Wombat swore and pushed Meg into the bushes. ‘What
was
that?’ she asked.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he replied, ‘but it’s a bad thing and we don’t want to be anywhere near it.’

Men shouted. Meg pushed past Wombat to peer into the valley and saw the Rebels waving swords and spears, charging down the slope, descending on the
disoriented and terrified Queen’s soldiers. The frightened animals scattered, leaving five burning sheep by the creek.

‘Come on, little bird. This isn’t for us,’ Wombat insisted. He urged her deeper into the bush, and kept her moving for quite a distance before he pulled up, wheezing from the effort. ‘Far enough,’ he gasped, as he sank to the ground.

Meg sat beside him. ‘Was that magic we saw?’ she asked.

Catching his breath, Wombat replied, ‘I’ve never seen magic, only heard about it, but that had to be magic, and the man in blue had to be a Seer.’

‘A what?’

‘A Seer. In Queen Sunset’s court there are men whose task is to research many things and to learn about the spiritual and magical nature of all things. They’re the Jarudhan priests who experiment.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Wombat shook his head. ‘Neither do I, really.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘I’ve heard a great many stories, mainly from travelling minstrels and storytellers. Some must have come to your village.’

‘They did, but because they told their stories in Archer’s Inn, often late at night, we weren’t always allowed to listen.’ Meg paused, then asked, ‘If the Seers are in the Queen’s court, why did that one attack the Queen’s soldiers?’

Wombat scratched his head. ‘To be honest, little bird, I don’t know the full story. All I know is that some people don’t like Queen Sunset and so they’ve rebelled. They’re following Future, Sunset’s son. He claims he should be the king. Some of the Seers agree with Future’s supporters, and that’s why there’s a war.’

‘Sounds stupid.’

‘It is stupid.’ Wombat fished inside his sack for a hunk of bread. ‘Eat something and we’ll head south. We’re sure to find the army camped beyond this range.’ A snapping twig jerked his head to the left. He dropped the bread and lifted his poleaxe. Meg spun, scanning the solid wall of grey and green mallee. There was nothing to see. ‘If I say run, little bird, you run,’ Wombat whispered. The bush was silent. Then a figure emerged, and another, and another, all armed with swords and dressed in motley shades of green. And out stepped a tall thin man in a long blue robe. ‘We’re minstrels,’ Wombat said slowly. ‘We’re not looking for trouble with anyone.’

‘That’s a rather large musical poleaxe to be carrying for someone who’s not looking for trouble,’ the man in the blue robe replied. Meg noticed that, unlike his companions and most men she knew, he was clean-shaven.

‘It’s useful if trouble comes looking for us,’ Wombat replied.

‘Queen Sunset’s supporters? Or Future the Rightful’s?’

‘Don’t take any interest in politics,’ Wombat answered.

The man in the blue robe shook his head. ‘Political naiveté doesn’t mean much in the middle of a war zone. You don’t seem happy to see us, so we’ll just have to assume you’ve been looking for the Queen’s army.’

‘We’re minstrels,’ Wombat retorted, carefully assessing the situation, checking that the Rebels hadn’t surrounded them. ‘We’re happy wherever there’s a few pennies to be made.’

‘Are you men of Jarudha’s faith?’

‘Can’t say we are,’ Wombat answered, glancing at Meg. ‘But we’re not opponents neither.’

‘Not good enough,’ the blue man said icily. ‘Not to take sides is to take sides.’

‘Not very good at philosophy either, eh,’ Wombat told him. ‘See? We’re just poor minstrels. We’d be happy to sing for a fine gentleman like yourself. For free, if you’d like.’

The man in the blue robe laughed, but it was a low, menacing laugh. ‘I think I’ll just watch you sing for free now.’ He nodded, and his six companions advanced.

‘Run!’ Wombat yelled.

Meg hesitated. Wombat swept his poleaxe in a broad arc and drove the attackers back a step, and yelled at her again. ‘Run!’ She turned and bolted into the bush.

She had no idea where she was meant to run. She sprinted up a small slope and along a narrow ridge. She dropped to a jog, and then she stopped to listen, wondering what had happened to Wombat. She heard a cry away to her right. Someone was hurt. She should have stayed to help. But that was a stupid thought. What could she do? She had never used a sword. She’d never fought with anyone except her little brothers. There were six Rebels, and the Seer, against Wombat. He had no hope. She’d been lucky to escape. But what could she do now? Where should she go?

The bushes rustled. Into the small clearing stepped the Seer and he stared directly at her. ‘Caught you,’ he said. She pulled her sword from her belt and pointed it at him. The Seer smiled. ‘What will you do with that? Kill me?’ he asked.

‘If I have to,’ she said. Her hands shook. Her knees trembled like her voice.

‘Put it down,’ he ordered. ‘I know a girl when I see one.’

‘I’m not a girl!’ she retorted.

‘You’re not a minstrel, and you’re no soldier,’ he said, stepping closer.

‘I’ll kill you!’ she screamed.

The Seer wove his hand in a quick pattern and Meg’s sword burst into flame. She dropped it in alarm, her eyes darting between the burning weapon and the Seer. ‘That’s better,’ he said, and twisted his hand in a sharp motion. The flames vanished and the sword on the ground looked untouched. She lunged at the sword, but a solid force like a kick or a punch rammed into her side and threw her into a bush, branches and twigs crunching under her body. Gasping, her left ribs seething with pain, her cheek bleeding from a jagged branch, she looked up to see the Seer standing above her, holding her sword menacingly. ‘You’re a very silly, wretched girl,’ he said. ‘I could have found your company pleasurable, and given you a softer path in this war, but you’re too charged with spirit, and far too dangerous.’ He raised the sword, but he cartwheeled out of Meg’s view, the weapon dropping harmlessly beside her. A poleaxe flashed across her view, followed by a crunch and a stifled groan. A moment later, Wombat’s bloodied visage appeared as he held out a brawny hand to help her up.