Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  With the coming of the child of power so close at hand, Battu had taken a keen interest in her. Since Tyrellan had gone, she’d been summoned to the throne room even more frequently, asked questions to which she had no answers. The more she learned of Battu, the more afraid she grew. The dark lord’s moods were erratic, his temper quick and sometimes deadly, and he was as paranoid and cunning as a thief with money.

  She had, at least, already proven herself useful to him. It had been two months since she’d foretold the location of the child’s birth. Battu had immediately dispatched Tyrellan to fetch it.

  In the meantime, it was unwise to keep the dark lord waiting. Lalenda stood, wiped her eyes, straightened her skirt, and moved off down the passage.

  •

  Battu did not enjoy having a crib in the throne room. It looked ridiculous, somehow insulting, standing there by itself in the middle of the otherwise empty space. He would have to assign some chambers to the child immediately.

  The pale boy stared up at him, meeting his eyes with what seemed like interest. Battu frowned. The previous Shadowdreamer, Raker, had discovered Battu at a young age, had raised him and taught him – and what had that got Raker? A knife in the dark and spells to follow. Would this child do the same to him?

  ‘Shadowdreamer?’ came Tyrellan’s voice.

  Battu was annoyed to have his thoughts disrupted. This was why he didn’t keep advisors. In Raker’s day, the throne room had thrummed with nobles and counsellors, but Battu had put a stop to that. Battu liked to stare out his long window in thought, and in silence. Of all who served him, however, he trusted Tyrellan the most. He found himself compelled to put up with the goblin’s interjections, even to try to keep him content. Tyrellan was a vigilant pair of eyes around the castle, one who took the safety of the Shadowdreamer very seriously – perhaps something left over from his days as security chief. Tyrellan had been the one to journey into the Midgeon Hills to enslave the ancient Golgoleth Ghost that now guarded Skygrip’s front door. He’d captured the ghost’s amulet, which kept it tied to this world, and personally set it into the archway above the castle’s main entrance cavern. Most importantly, without Tyrellan, Battu would never have risen to power, nor kept it.

  ‘What?’ he growled.

  ‘The Mire Pixie is here.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Battu, turning. He hadn’t noticed her come in, so tiny were her footfalls. She even walked as if scared of attracting attention. He smiled thinly. ‘Lalenda.’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ she said, quaking.

  Battu waved a hand lazily towards the crib. ‘The product of prophecy,’ he said. ‘Take a look.’

  Lalenda ventured forward to look through the crib bars, and gasped at the ivory boy. ‘He’s . . . he’s beautiful.’

  The comment seemed to draw Tyrellan’s attention for a moment, but he quickly returned to his impassive gaze. Unexpectedly, the baby smiled at Lalenda, and she smiled in return. Battu could not remember seeing such an expression on her face in all the time she had been at Skygrip.

  He whacked the side of the crib, knocking the smiles from both their faces. Tyrellan’s lip curled in a snarl, but he smoothed it away before the dark lord saw.

  ‘Now, girl,’ Battu continued, ‘I have some questions.’

  ‘I will try, my lord,’ she whispered.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Battu. He paced around the crib like a hulking bear, wrapped up in his swirling black cloak. He began to speak of the events in Whisperwood, asking Lalenda if she could explain them. She could not.

  He asked if there were supposed to be two boys, as the prophecy had spoken only of one. Was the child in the crib the child of power? Who was the child who’d been taken north? Lalenda could not say.

  Battu came to a stop before her, penetrating her with his deep, pitted gaze. ‘It wasn’t easy, Lalenda,’ he said, ‘taking Refectu from a Shadowdreamer too complacent to raise a hand against our enemies.’ His features twisted in hatred. ‘The gods should have been pleased with his demise. How could I have known?’ he muttered, almost to himself. ‘And the dream has become even more ambiguous of late. It shows me nothing of my future. Do I have reason to be concerned, Lalenda?’

  Lalenda was too terrified to blink. Battu stamped his foot, making her jump.

  ‘This boy!’ he hissed. ‘He is to end the war.’ His hands shot out and clenched her shoulders. ‘Is he destined to become the Shadowdreamer?’

  ‘I . . . have seen nothing, my lord.’

  ‘Do I raise a usurper to my own throne?’ Battu demanded, shaking her so hard that her teeth snapped. ‘You must have seen something! Anything!’

  All she could do was shiver uncontrollably.

  ‘What good is a prophet,’ he roared, lifting her into the air, ‘who knows nothing of the future!’

  He drew back a hand, blue energy collecting across his fingertips. Lalenda cried out, and in his crib the boy twisted, echoing her cry.

  •

  Tyrellan glanced at the child sharply, saw his eyes widen in distress over what was happening. Was it possible the saviour child did not want Battu’s rag doll harmed? Perhaps he was simply reacting to violence and shouting, but Tyrellan did not think so. The boy had seen worse than this on their journey home and not uttered a sound.

  ‘My lord!’ Tyrellan said. Battu turned slowly to his servant, fingers still poised with blue energy crackling. Tyrellan bowed deeply. ‘Forgive me, lord, but I have heard that prophets grow more in tune with their gifts as they grow older. Perhaps in time she will prove useful.’

  Dazedly Lalenda stared at him, no doubt wondering why he had intervened. She went still in Battu’s grip as the dark lord decided what to do. Suddenly he dropped her, and instinctively she spread her wings for the fall.

  ‘Get out!’ Battu bellowed. ‘OUT!’

  She scrambled to her feet and ran headlong from the chamber. Battu stood breathing hard, his jaw set as he considered the boy. Tyrellan watched him carefully, quietly, a finger playing atop the hilt of a dagger in his belt. If Battu raised a hand to the child . . .

  ‘Is this my fate then?’ Battu said finally. ‘That I have strived to bring this boy to us, to raise him in my castle, teach him as my heir . . . only to bow to him in the end?’

  Tyrellan knew how jealously Battu guarded his power. Even if the Dark Gods themselves ordered him to, Battu may not willingly give away Refectu. The boy would remain in constant danger as long as Battu thought he represented a threat to his rule. Tyrellan flexed his jaw, choosing his words carefully. ‘He was born to serve the shadow’s will,’ he said. ‘But we do not need chaos or unrest. I do not imagine it is his destiny to overthrow you.’

  ‘No?’ said Battu, running a hand along the crib.

  ‘He’s to lead our armies into Kainordas. For a push like that, we’ll need unity in Fenvarrow. A hero on the frontlines with a strong leader behind him. If you teach him well, my lord, you will foster his loyalty and respect.’

  Battu pondered this. ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘You are also in a position to learn how he can be controlled. If he’s to be your instrument, you must familiarise yourself with him.’

  ‘My instrument . . .’ echoed Battu. ‘Yes. Maybe that’s what they meant when they said I’d be rewarded for all my years of patience.’

  ‘Lord?’ said Tyrellan.

  Battu waved a hand dismissively ‘None of your concern.’

  Tyrellan watched his master depart. He knew Battu understood that he couldn’t kill the child – such a crime would be punished forever in the afterlife. Nonetheless, Battu could act rashly when in a rage. How long would Tyrellan have to monitor his master’s fears? It would be better if he didn’t have to remove Battu; Fenvarrow needed him while its true leader grew strong.

  Nine / A Rush of Blood

  Nine

&nbs
p; A Rush of Blood

  A Rush of Blood

  Corlas sat on a hill under a tree with arms resting across his axe handle. In the valley before him stood a farmhouse: painted bricks, and smoke wisping from the chimney. In the yard were carrot tops, tomato plants and a henhouse probably full of eggs. In the past two weeks it was the closest he’d come to settlement, having steered clear of roads, towns and farms. During that time he’d eaten little and now his hunger bit him painfully. He’d steadfastly ignored it, for his true pain was above and beyond all earthly concern. To attend to hunger seemed somehow like stooping.

  ‘You’re hungry, aren’t you?’ came Iassia’s voice on his shoulder.

  The bird had been with him since they’d met, his only source of comfort. Iassia had helped him through days when it had been so hard to rise, almost impossible to put one foot in front of the other.

  ‘Do you read minds now, little bird?’ rumbled Corlas.

  The bird twittered in amusement. ‘It doesn’t take a mind-reader to hear the growls of your stomach.’

  Corlas grunted.

  ‘Your goal beckons so strongly,’ mused the bird, ‘it’s no wonder all else has faded to irrelevance. But, Corlas, you are still a man, with day-to-day concerns. To acknowledge your hunger may be to accede to that also. It can be hard to admit it to oneself after such troubled times, but life goes on.’

  Corlas frowned. From the start the bird had been able to read him so perceptively. This time Iassia had echoed his own thoughts almost exactly. Yet Corlas could not go down to the farm. He would either have to steal or beg, and he was not a man for either.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to beg,’ said Iassia. ‘Look at all that unchopped wood out the back there. You could offer your axe in return for a meal.’

  Corlas turned the idea over in his head, but there was something else that kept him from going down there. Now that he’d returned to the world, he felt apart from it. These were not his people any more. These were enemy lands.

  ‘They are simple folk, Corlas,’ came Iassia’s voice. ‘Don’t let your anger at those in power trickle down to them. They are but farmers living as best they can. It wasn’t their decision to take everything from you.’

  Corlas shut his eyes, remembering the farm where he had grown up. To his younger self, a soldier’s life had seemed glamorous and worthwhile, better than scraping a life out of the dirt. Now the dirt seemed more honest, or at least less ignorant. As a soldier, Corlas had been an unthinking instrument. These people were merely working to live. Somewhere inside himself, dully and emotionlessly, Corlas forgave the farmers.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘These people are not my enemies. There is no shame in asking them for work. Will you accompany me?’

  ‘I think not,’ said the bird. ‘Talking birds tend to complicate things.’

  Corlas started down the hill just as someone emerged from the henhouse. She was a young woman, strong and vital, who stopped short and clutched her basket when she saw him. He realised what a frightful visage he must make, tattered and filthy, especially with the monstrous axe swinging at his side.

  ‘Greetings, madam,’ he called out. ‘I mean no harm, and will leave if you wish it. I am simply a traveller with an empty belly. I thought perhaps my axe and I could see to your woodpile in exchange for a meal?’

  The woman seemed to relax somewhat at his polite tone. She glanced at the woodpile then back to him. The farmhouse door banged open and a little girl with curly brown hair came barrelling out.

  ‘Back inside, Essie!’ snapped the woman.

  The girl stared wide-eyed at Corlas, then slowly did as she was told. Corlas suddenly doubted the farmwife would let him anywhere near her family.

  ‘I see you have a small one,’ he said, ‘and would be understandably concerned about strangers in the home. I will bother you no more, madam.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said, and came closer the fence. ‘What’s your name?’

  Corlas’s tongue stuck in his mouth. Not wishing anyone to mark his passage, he didn’t want to give his real name. The first thing that came to mind was the name of the blade whose bones lay rotting back in the wood.

  ‘Dakur.’

  ‘Well, Dakur,’ she said, ‘my husband told me this very morning he’d chop the wood himself.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘In fact he tells me that every morning. The man thinks he can be a keeper and still play farmer too.’

  She studied his face as she made this remark, presumably because she wanted to see that he’d registered her husband’s profession. A criminal wouldn’t deliberately enter a peacekeeper’s home.

  ‘In his compulsory years of keeping, or by choice?’ asked Corlas.

  ‘By choice.’

  ‘Ah. That is well. No risk of being sent away from his family then.’

  At that she smiled, and he nodded thankfully as she opened the gate.

  •

  An hour later the wood was chopped and Corlas felt almost cleansed of dirt for all the sweat that had rolled off him. The woman, Frera, appeared from the house with little Essie at her side. Corlas was touched to be invited in, and sat at the table trying to contain his hunger as bread, cheese and fruit were placed before him. He forced himself to take proper bites instead of cramming full his mouth.

  ‘Where are you headed, Dakur?’ asked Frera.

  ‘Towards Kadass,’ said Corlas. ‘I hope to find work there.’

  ‘Ooooooh,’ said Essie. ‘Kadass! I never been to Kadass!’

  ‘Have you not?’ said Corlas, amused by her bright eyes. ‘It is a busy place. There are folk from all over Kainordas.’

  ‘Are there Saurians?’ asked Essie.

  Corlas chuckled. ‘Some. Mostly they prefer their deserts, but some do venture south.’

  ‘I never seen a Saurian! What are they like?’

  ‘Well, they ssssspeak funny,’ said Corlas, and Essie giggled.

  The door opened and in walked a muscular young man dressed in the leather uniform of a peacekeeper. He stopped immediately when he saw Corlas.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘Don’t be rude, Chavus,’ said Frera, rising. ‘This is Dakur. He chopped the wood for us, and now we’re having a meal.’

  ‘I was going to chop that wood,’ said Chavus, not taking angry eyes from Corlas. ‘You should know better than to bring strangers into our home, Frera.’

  ‘Chavus!’ said Frera, shooting Corlas an apologetic look.

  Corlas rose with stormy eyes. The softening effect of little Essie on his spirits had been instantly expelled. It seemed that soldiers in uniform brought him nothing but trouble these days.

  ‘I am no longer welcome,’ he said. ‘I shall see myself out. Thank you for the meal, Frera.’

  Against Frera’s protests, he went to the door and let himself out. Behind him he heard the sound of heated words. As he headed for his axe, left leaning against a log, the farmhouse door banged again.

  ‘Not so brief, stranger,’ came Chavus’s voice. ‘I’d have your purpose here.’

  Heat rose in Corlas. ‘My purpose is none of your concern.’

  Chavus faltered under his glower, but the expression was quickly replaced by the pride of a man with something to prove. Corlas recognised it well, and found it entirely misplaced.

  ‘It is indeed my concern,’ said Chavus, hand going to his sword hilt. ‘I’ve been ordered to keep an eye out for suspicious fellows such as you, for there have been strange happenings in the south. You will answer my questions, man. It’s the law.’

  ‘Not my law,’ said Corlas.

  Chavus’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Then you admit to being aligned with the shadow?’

  ‘No,’ said Corlas, ‘I do not.’

  ‘You will come with me to my headqu
arters,’ said Chavus, levelling his sword at Corlas’s chest.

  ‘Keeper, I mean neither you nor your family harm. You would do best to put away your sword and allow me on my way.’

  ‘I’m giving the orders here!’ snapped Chavus.

  Corlas stooped to pick up his axe.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Chavus. ‘Stand still!’

  ‘Out of my way,’ said Corlas. ‘I am going to leave.’

  ‘I think not!’ said Chavus, and lunged.

  Corlas sidestepped and Chavus overextended. Corlas swung the axe, blunt end first, into Chavus’s stomach. The man doubled up on the ground with eyes watering. From the farmhouse window came Frera’s cry.

  ‘It is all right, Frera!’ called Corlas. ‘He’s only winded. I will leave you now.’

  Quickly he made his way to the gate. A shout sounded from behind and he spun, surprised to see Chavus back on his feet and charging him down. Instinctively he brought up his axe, batting the sword away. Chavus came onwards, swinging wildly, and Corlas was forced back under a rain of blows. The look in Chavus’s eyes was determined, righteous – he truly intended to do Corlas harm. Each shuddering jolt on his axe jarred Corlas’s teeth in his clenched jaw. His blood began to sing its old song, forgotten for many years – the song of battle. Fire exploded in his heart and bubbled up his arms, calling them to action. It was like his old soldiering days, when he would lose himself in the fight. Others called it going berserk, but to Corlas it was like entering a vivid dream where a single, simple truth held sway – kill, or be killed. Time seemed to slow and every sense heightened. The heft of the axe in his hands, rough wood against his skin. The sweat running down his face, salty in his mouth. The light flashing off the axe head as it turned in the air, the hairs on his arms rustling as he swung. The roar of his own voice above the sound of blood rushing in his ears. A pinprick of white-hot rage burning in his centre . . . or was it fierce joy? He hadn’t felt so alive since Mirrow had died.