Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  Tyrellan decided the boy was blessed, and thus his safeguarding was a grave honour and responsibility. He silently swore to watch over the boy always, protecting him as he grew to power.

  •

  In Whisperwood, at the base of a blackened tree, ashes stirred as if there was a breeze. Floating low across the ground, they began to collect around pieces of scorched bone.

  Six / Through Dead Eyes

  Six

  Through Dead Eyes

  Through Dead Eyes

  Borgordus was the northernmost of the five states of Kainordas. A fertile region of hill, farm and wood, it was said that here the sun passed closest to the land, as it rose from behind the Morningbridge Peaks. It was also here that the Thrones kept their stronghold, the Open Halls.

  The Halls were built on a green plateau above the capital city, Kadass. Both Halls and Kadass were enclosed by stone walls: two great circles connected by a corridor that provided protected passage in a time of war – though no enemy army had ever penetrated that far. The Halls themselves were a collection of white buildings great and small, but all constructed without roofs. In buildings over a storey high, many of the outside walls were missing as well. These skeleton structures were open to air and light and the lazy breezes that rolled in from the Shallow Sea. An ancient enchantment diverted rain from falling into these roofless dwellings, and a form of subtle magnetism kept anyone from falling from high open places or exposed stairwells. The only way to fall was to be pushed, or to leap deliberately. The Halls were quiet too, for the enchantment stopped sound floating freely out of rooms for all to hear, and blurred the vision of anyone who tried to peer directly into another’s home. The High Mage Fahren called the enchantment the ‘Essence of Walls’.

  To the west stood the Open Castle, a huge block some thirty levels high. It wasn’t a beautiful building by any means, looking from a distance like a white brick riddled with holes. Inside, however, was plenty of colour and garish excess, and a bustling menagerie of brightly feathered courtiers and nobles. On the castle’s roof was the Sun Court and the great seat of the Thrones, Borgordusmae.

  To the south of the Halls stood the barracks, surrounded by training fields for soldiers. In the east, student mages were schooled at the Academy of the Sun. Overlooking it was the Open Tower, which was missing so many of its outer walls it looked as if it should topple. The Tower was home to many mages, including the High Mage Fahren, whose chambers lay at the very top, the highest point of the Halls. It was here that Fahren tossed and turned, water squeezing from between clenched eyes. He jerked awake, forehead slick with sweat. Outside, the sky was lightening.

  ‘Elessa,’ he murmured. She’d always been one of his favourites – a bright student, and a beautiful girl. Now he was certain she was dead, certain that the dream of a terrible battle in Whisperwood had really happened. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, horrified by what she had gone up against. Having faced Fazel himself once before, part of him also glowed with pride that she’d bested him.

  Fazel had been a great man once. Born a Varenkai, he’d loved life and the light and performed many great deeds. Many had wanted him to be High Mage, but Fazel had never accepted the title. He’d served under the Throne Siante, during the time that Assidax had been Shadowdreamer. Fazel had hated what Assidax had achieved in the south, and eventually had journeyed to find her. Arrogant and brave, he’d believed he could defeat her in her own realm – but when the two had fought, Fazel was slain. Assidax’s terrible gift for necromancy meant she’d been able to bring Fazel’s spirit back whole and bind him to her as a shadow creature. Unlike many of the undead, he’d retained his intellect, but was powerless to act on it. He became a slave to the Shadowdreamers, locked in servitude to those he’d always loathed the most. Fazel hoped Elessa had truly killed him, for his was a soul that needed to be put to rest. Poor Elessa . . .

  Later, thought Fahren. Springing from bed, he dressed hurriedly in his blue and gold robe and left his quarters. Tall and spry, he bounded down the Tower stairs three at a time, a clashing mix of age and youth. He had wrinkles, but they were well defined, as if they’d always been part of his face. His hair and beard were long and full, a vibrant blond untouched by grey. His crystal blue eyes shone clear, and there were still women who vied for their attention. As he ran, he thought about what he had dreamt and had to force his feet to keep moving lest any single realisation stop him in his tracks. It couldn’t be, he thought. It couldn’t be that.

  Mentally, Fahren was well prepared for the coming of the child of power. The prophets had known the child would be born within a hundred years of their collective vision, and that hundred years was almost over. But what had happened to the boy to split him in two? It was something to do with that stone around his neck, Fahren was sure.

  ‘It has to be,’ he muttered. ‘The Stone of Evenings Mild.’

  Legend said that when Arkus and Assedrynn had joined forces one last time to destroy the Great Well, the Stone of Evenings Mild had been created at the point where they had focused their power. It was a way for them to stay unified even as their magic separated. The Stone, then, was capable of uniting shadow and light to the same purpose; something impossible since the demise of Old Magic. Used in reverse, it might also be capable of separating Old Magic into its opposite parts – and that, Fahren theorised, was what had happened to the child. From around the child’s neck, the Stone had channelled the pulling spells of Elessa and Fazel into one force, drawing the child into the Stone and breaking him into shadow and light.

  Questions without answers burbled through his mind. Was this breaking part of the prophecy, or had the child’s potential been destroyed? Were both children now capable of breaking the stalemate? That seemed pointless, for it would only instil another level of balance. Fahren believed the long war existed because shadow creatures were stronger in Fenvarrow, just as the creatures of light were stronger in Kainordas – thus each had a defence stronger than their attack. What did it mean if both boys could counteract that? Or was one great, the other weak? Why had the original child been born with Old Magic? Where had the Stone appeared from?

  At least one thing was certain: Fahren wanted the shadow child and the Stone brought to him as quickly as possible.

  At the bottom of the Tower he composed himself. The air was warm and the gardens quiet with a sense of serenity he did not feel. He trod paths that were pale in the early morning, his robe swishing around his sandalled feet. Towards the Open Castle he went, expecting to find the Throne Naphur asleep in his rooms. Instead, as he approached the castle, the Throne appeared striding towards him, fully clothed and surrounded by guards. A squat man, but broad-shouldered and muscular, Naphur was bronze from his many days holding court under the sun. Hair grew upon him in unruly abundance – his chest hair in particular refusing to stay tucked beneath the neckline of his cream silk shirt. A red cape hung from his shoulders, and around his head was a circlet of gold with an image of the sun set at the front. Gold ‘rays’ spread up from the sun, over his forehead and into his closely cropped brown hair, where they moulded perfectly to his scalp. The circlet was the Auriel, crown of the Thrones, and it hadn’t left Naphur’s head since he was twenty-two.

  ‘Fahren!’ said Naphur. ‘What are you doing? Have you had further news from the front?’

  Fahren fell into step beside his ruler. ‘The front, my Throne?’

  ‘Yes, the front!’ said Naphur. ‘Battu is marshalling war machines. All this increased activity we’ve been experiencing along the border – he’s been testing our defences. We’re certain he plans to invade again! Gerent Ratacks and his cerepans are assembled in the barracks to discuss our recourse.’

  In that moment Fahren saw it clearly. Battu must somehow have known where and when the child would be born, or else his servants could not have been there at the precise moment. More importantly, how long had he known? Long eno
ugh to create an enormous distraction to draw Kainordan troops away from their regular postings? To clear the land of threats to his returning minions?

  ‘Where does he concentrate his forces, my Throne?’

  ‘In the southeast. We think he sets his gaze on Holdwith.’

  Not the Shining Mines then, the target of his last invasion? No, of course not, for the Mines were due south of Whisperwood, right in the path of his servants.

  ‘My Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘there is something even more pressing we must discuss.’

  ‘More pressing?’

  ‘Naphur,’ said Fahren, ‘the child of power has been born.’

  Naphur frowned, then looked startled, then scowled and shook his head. ‘Magic,’ he spat.

  As they strode towards the barracks, Fahren described his dream – from the moment Elessa had stepped from the hut, until the reinforcements arrived too late. He spoke of the separation of the child and his theory about the Stone. Naphur was annoyed by that, as he always was when magic complicated things.

  ‘And this “invasion” of Battu’s,’ continued Fahren, ‘I don’t think it’s real.’

  Naphur drew to a stop. ‘What do you mean, it isn’t real?’

  ‘It’s to focus our gaze elsewhere, so Tyrellan can escape with the child.’

  Naphur frowned. ‘I cannot ignore armies collecting on my border, whatever motive put them there.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fahren. ‘But you cannot ignore the other concern either. Send out patrols south of Whisperwood, put the area on high alert.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Naphur, glancing impatiently towards the barracks. ‘But why do you worry so greatly? By the sounds of it, we have the right child under our control. He should be here in a matter of weeks, and surely it’s a good thing that all the shadow has been blasted out of him.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what it means, my Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘but the future of Kainordas depends upon our actions. We need to do whatever we can to get the Stone and the other boy. Will you promise me that you will take this seriously?’

  The Throne looked somewhat abashed – he’d never really forgotten that Fahren used to rap his knuckles as a boy. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he repeated. ‘Soldiers will be sent to comb the clearing in Whisperwood for the Stone, and I will deploy extra patrols from the Shining Mines. Will that satisfy you?’

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Fahren.

  ‘I’ll have birds sent presently. As for now, my officers await. We’ll speak again soon.’

  Fahren watched the entourage head off down the path. Naphur would do what Fahren asked, but Fahren doubted he grasped its significance. Naphur was a soldier at heart, and would fight this in his own way, even if that was exactly what the enemy wanted.

  Today Fahren would be sending out birds of his own.

  •

  Each breath he took was another painful cobblestone on the slow road to consciousness. Dimly he began to smell wet wood and bracken, hear birds in the trees, feel a throbbing at the base of his skull . . . and then, rudely, he was awake. He opened his eyes with a moan.

  A couple of handspans above him was what looked like the rippled bark of a tree trunk. How could it exist at such an angle, given he was lying down? He felt groggy and disoriented. Where was he? He shifted his weight and felt planks beneath him – the floor of his hut, but covered in splinters and branches. Everything was creaking. The tree trunk above him was stuck through his hut like a spear through a pig. The events of the previous night rushed back to him like scenes from a nightmare.

  His boy!

  His pain forgotten, Corlas rose from under the tree and stared about his broken home. Against the wall the cot lay in pieces, but there was no sign of his son. Bellowing angrily, he ran out into the clearing.

  Sunlight shone merrily on ruination. The grass and earth were churned to sodden clumps. A gaping crack rent the ground. Trees around the clearing were burnt, broken or missing. Wood was everywhere, from tiny chips to massive branches. As Corlas took in the wreckage, the breeze brought him the stink of death. Fearing to find his son, he searched. The only body he found was the blade from the Halls, Dakur. Corlas left the corpse in the trees and returned to the clearing, a grief beyond madness shining in his eyes.

  He fell to his knees on the destroyed flowerbed that housed his wife’s grave, plunging his fingers into the mud. This time yesterday his wife had been alive, giving birth to a child they both already loved, in the home they’d built together. Today he could not recognise where she was buried, their home was destroyed and his son was gone. Corlas did not even know who had taken him.

  A seizing, choking pain gripped his chest, and he hoped that it would crush his heart and he would die.

  When he came back to himself, he was standing in the trees with his axe in his hand. He didn’t remember getting it, but there it was. He glanced around – the clearing was behind him, as if he’d been walking away from it. Certainly he could not go back there yet, if ever. He stumbled away into the trees, and eventually fell, and slept where he landed. Sunlight began to burn his back, but above him the branches seemed to move closer together and blot it out. A soldier and mage passed him nearby, and grass grew around him to shield him from their searching gazes.

  When Corlas awoke it was night. He broke free of the grass easily, without really wondering where it had come from, and hauled himself up against a tree trunk. He stared at the sky and thought not much of anything. Eventually he slept again, and dreamed torturous dreams of his wife that made him howl on awakening.

  The next day, a baby deer walked out of the trees and simply lay down in front of him. Corlas knew he must force himself to eat, for it would be an insult not to. A small part of him was comforted that the wood still looked after him despite the loss of his Sprite wife. As he built a fire and spit, the rumbling in his stomach made him remember he was still alive.

  The deer had begun to smoke when suddenly he heard voices carrying through the trees. He froze – who had come? Moving swiftly and quietly for such a large man, he stole towards the clearing, going low to the ground behind a log. Beyond, outside his hut, a troop of blades was working back and forth over the ground with rakes. Anger rose hot in him and his fingers itched on his axe. When would the violation end?

  ‘Spread out!’ yelled the penulm, the second in command. ‘The High Mage said it landed outside the clearing! You,’ she singled out a droopy-nosed fellow and pointed to where Corlas lay watching, ‘get over there!’

  Corlas crawled backwards and slipped into the shadows at the base of a tree. The droopy-nosed fellow appeared where Corlas had been moments before and started raking the undergrowth unenthusiastically.

  ‘Three years of service,’ Corlas heard him mutter. ‘Would a bit of excitement be too much to ask? Yes, apparently. What’s your next assignment, Gudgeon, they ask. Well, it’s raking through leaves for bits of old jewellery! Pretty impressive, hey ladies?’ The blade spat and leaned on his rake. ‘You would think,’ he went on, ‘that with Fenvarrow looming on the doorstep, I’d finally get to see some action. You would think!’ He slammed his rake back into the ground, digging into roots.

  Corlas caught a growl before it made it past his lips. How dare this man treat the forest with such disrespect.

  Gudgeon paused, then raised his nose into the air, giving a long sniff. Corlas wondered what he was doing, but then he too smelled it – off a way into the trees, his deer was cooking well.

  ‘Now there’s a thing,’ said Gudgeon, narrowing his eyes. ‘Smells like someone’s stolen off for a snack when they should be working.’ He put the rake against a tree. ‘Damned if the price of my silence ain’t going to be a tasty leg or two.’

  The blade moved off into the trees, following his nose.

  They even want to steal my lunch, thought Corlas, and al
most found it funny.

  •

  Gudgeon became irritated that the illegal picnic wasn’t closer. There was something sinister about Whisperwood and he quickly discovered that he didn’t like being alone in it. People told stories about the place; stories that hadn’t seemed so worrying when he’d been working alongside a full troop of soldiers in a sunny clearing. It was said you could hear the whispers of the dead flying about the trees at night, and the streams in the north were full of fisherman’s banes.

  ‘Gudgeon, you fool,’ he muttered to himself, ‘you’re inventing fancies. There’s nothing out here but birdsong.’

  The scent became stronger and he heard the crackle of flames and melting fat from around a tree. ‘Ah ha!’ he exclaimed, leaping out to surprise his soon-to-be-co-conspirators, then glanced around in confusion. Before him was a badly angled spit holding a deer above a fire, but there were no other blades in sight.

  Something hit him in the back of his head and he blacked out.

  A splash of cold water woke him, and he choked on the gag in his mouth. Attempting to raise his hands, he found them tied behind his back. Before him crouched a massive man, staring from under heavy brows and unkempt lengths of ratty hair that might once have been curly. His rippling torso was bare and covered with scratches and scars, and he wore only a pair of frayed trousers. In his hands he held a great axe, and the smear of blood on its blunt end told Gudgeon what had hit him.

  ‘You are forgiven for trying to cry out when you woke,’ growled the man, ‘but will not be again. Understand?’

  Gudgeon nodded an affirmative, and the man pulled the gag out of his mouth.

  ‘Who are you?’ Gudgeon asked shakily, his head pounding.

  For some reason this seemed to amuse the man, for a flash of teeth showed through the tattered beard. ‘Who am I?’ he repeated. ‘I used to live in the clearing that your comrades now search. I had a home and a wife there. My name is Corlas. Of the bloodline Corinas.’