Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  Then for a time everything went blank, until another sound trickled into his consciousness. He blinked, coming back to himself. Only moments had passed, but for Corlas it seemed like waking from a long sleep. Crying sounded at his feet, and slowly he looked down. Frera was sprawled by her husband’s side, sobbing as she tried to stem the blood flow from his ruined chest, turning her hands to gloves of scarlet.

  ‘Stupid boy,’ muttered Corlas, dazed.

  Frera turned her eyes upwards; they blazed through her tears. ‘Curse you!’ she screamed. ‘May the Dark Gods take you!’

  ‘Frera . . .’ choked Chavus, his eyes beginning to mist. ‘For goodness sake . . . get back in the house!’

  A child was crying too, and Corlas saw Essie at the farmhouse door, clutching her dress to herself in fear and anguish. He backed away.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he mumbled, and ran.

  •

  Corlas awoke, and couldn’t remember feeling more drained. Sitting up, he became aware of all the aches and pains his body had developed from nights spent on hard ground. Dread filled him as he heard Frera’s shrieking once more. It’s not my fault, he thought. Did he believe that? Maybe he could have disarmed Chavus, or fled, if the blood frenzy hadn’t taken him. No, Chavus had brought it upon himself by backing Corlas into a corner.

  There was a rustle as Iassia alighted on a branch nearby. ‘They turned east,’ he said, of the soldiers who’d been looking for them since yesterday. The bird had been scouting a wide circle, giving Corlas ample time to move if trouble came his way. ‘We should press on.’

  ‘Why?’ growled Corlas. ‘Now I am no better than those who destroyed my family.’

  The weaver chirped sympathetically. ‘You must stay the course. The events at the farmhouse were not of your making. You must still right the wrongs committed against you.’

  ‘But I have no plan,’ said Corlas. ‘I have steamed ahead with no idea of what to do once I reach the Halls. I cannot take on every soldier in Kainordas once I get there.’

  Iassia cocked his head. ‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘But I must have the truth from you if it’s to work. I’ve gathered, from things you’ve said, that your career in the military was quite successful before you left it?’

  Corlas went silent. Had he spoken to the bird about that? He couldn’t remember. He’d been such a mess, and had ranted and raved in the bird’s presence often. Probably something of his past had come out sometime.

  ‘I was an officer in the army,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Of any note?’

  ‘My full name is Corlas Corinas.’

  The bird seemed surprised. ‘Corlas Corinas? The great commander of the Shining Mines?’

  ‘I was not the commander,’ said Corlas with a scowl.

  ‘But you are well known for your actions there,’ said the bird. ‘This is good – it fits well with my plan. You must assume this identity again.’

  ‘If it will get me back my son,’ said Corlas, and shrugged. Then he half-smiled. ‘But what is your plan, oh little wise bird?’

  ‘One step at a time,’ said Iassia. ‘First, we must strike a bargain, which is the way of my kind. If I am to help you, you must promise me something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometime, in the future, I may call on you to return the favour. You must then do something I ask of you. I may never ask anything,’ he added in a casual tone, ‘but if you agree, I have the power to bind you to your promise. It is a trick granted to my race by Arkus in his benevolence.’

  Corlas frowned, mulling over his choices. If the bird could help him, what was the harm in having to collect a few worms for it sometime in the future?

  ‘Seems like a fair trade,’ he said. ‘I will strike you your bargain. Perform your trick.’

  ‘One more thing. The bargain is between us alone. You may not speak of our association to others. The “trick”, as you call it, binds you to that as well. My kind must remain secret so we can continue our good work.’

  Corlas grunted, but nodded. Iassia flew onto his head and he felt an odd sensation, almost like a knot being tied in his mind. Iassia gave his skull a sharp tap and hopped back to the ground.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ he asked.

  ‘I felt . . . something. It went away quickly.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Iassia happily. ‘Then we are bound as allies. Now, let’s work out how to get back your son.’

  •

  In the weeks that followed, Corlas and Iassia continued towards the Open Halls. With the bird’s help Corlas was able to avoid pursuers, and after a time it became clear they’d escaped altogether. Thoughts of Frera and Essie troubled him, but Chavus should have remembered his family before setting himself against Corlas’s axe.

  He no longer took such long, undeviating strides, and his eyes went in other directions than north. The anger that had driven him relentlessly was no longer a shield from his grief and he began to feel a purer, more profound sadness. Iassia proved a comfort, and the two talked long as they walked, or camped at night. Eventually they came to the Great Rass, a white, swirling river on the border of Centrus, and crossed into the hilly grasslands of Borgordus. They came to a town with a quarry, where even someone as raggedy as Corlas was able to make coin splitting rocks. He bought new clothes to replace his rags, and a razor and comb. When they moved on, he felt more human than he had in a long while. There was food in his belly and clean cloth on his back, and he’d worked honestly for both.

  They travelled on until, one day, Corlas found himself only a league from the capital.

  •

  Iassia considered the distant ward stone standing at the top of a steep rise. It stuck out of the grass like a limestone monolith, giving off an almost imperceptible light. Part of a larger circle, it was a marker in an otherwise invisible border all around Kadass and the Halls. If any creatures of the shadow tried to pass the stones’ perimeter, they would meet with resistance and a silent alarm would be sent to nearby military mages. Lightfists, Iassia recalled they were named, his feathers fluffing in distaste. He couldn’t risk going any further.

  ‘My friend,’ he chirped in Corlas’s ear, ‘I fear our time together is at an end.’

  Corlas transferred the colourful bird from his shoulder to his hand, holding him before him. The clumsy movement irked Iassia, but he did not let it show.

  ‘I thought that may be so,’ Corlas said, for Iassia had never accompanied him into civilisation before. The man’s brow furrowed and Iassia sensed his thoughts. He was anxious about re-entering Kadass and the Open Halls. These were places of his youth, where many would remember him. Also, he was trying to figure out how to thank Iassia. Internally, Iassia was amused. The man would not thank him if he knew Iassia’s true purpose, or that the bird was bored to blazes with having to sympathise with his plight.

  ‘No need for thanks, Corlas,’ Iassia said. ‘Helping is its own reward.’

  ‘I would thank you anyway,’ said Corlas. ‘I would be lost but for you. If not in body then in heart. So thank you, little wise Iassia.’

  ‘Well, this is not a final goodbye,’ said Iassia brightly. ‘I may find you again, when you are free with your boy – why, I’d like to meet the lad who caused all this fuss! And perhaps one day I will call on you to repay the favour you still owe me. Who knows?’ The bird was silent a moment and then, very seriously, he said, ‘Corlas, do not rush towards your goal. Remember your boy will be closely watched, perhaps disguised, and it may take time for the right opportunity to present itself. Gain the trust of those in the castle. Be patient. In time, your son will know his father.’

  ‘For his sake I will be patient,’ replied Corlas.

  Iassia sensed the man making a sincere effort to commit to his words. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Then take my blessings with you. I’ll pra
y for your success. Goodbye, Corlas Corinas.’

  With that Iassia launched into the air, rising quickly on the warm breeze.

  ‘Goodbye, little bird,’ said Corlas.

  Ten / Tyrellan Paints the Town Red

  Ten

  Tyrellan Paints the Town Red

  Tyrellan Paints the Town Red

  Tyrellan went to his cupboard, which was taller than he had use for. His quarters were large and he didn’t like them, but they went with the title of First Slave. He’d preferred his smaller rooms further down the hierarchy. These larger ones simply meant more space for the same few things, more places to have to hide weapons, and more air for the ice to cool. They weren’t efficient.

  He took a goblet and bottle of wine from the cupboard, then sat in a wooden chair before the iceplace. He rarely bothered with the luxury of dark ice, although he was more than entitled. Tonight, however, he was dimly aware that he should do something special for himself and so a luminescent blue cube stood in the iceplace. Its light illuminated the edges of objects, and it sent out cold wafts like ghosting fingers across his skin. Scowling, he gave up trying to find enjoyment in the sensation. Instead he unstopped the bottle and filled the goblet. Sipping, he felt the wine trickle down his throat, felt the toxins worming their way through the tiny tracks of his body, into his blood where they danced and destroyed. It dulled his senses after only a sip and he didn’t care for that at all. ‘Filth,’ he said, putting the goblet down. Let the idiot masses have their common joys. They weren’t for him.

  He placed a claw on his stomach. The strange sensation left there by the accursed light mage had become more noticeable by the day. Now it almost felt like something was wriggling in his belly. Also the mage had mentioned his birthday and . . .

  Today was his birthday.

  Probably no one alive knew it, but Tyrellan didn’t think that would matter to whatever foul magic had been planted inside him. He’d asked Battu about it, but Battu hadn’t sensed anything out of the ordinary and had dismissed him. The thought of the Shadowdreamer letting potentially dangerous enemy magic go unchecked behind his lines angered Tyrellan.

  The feeling in his gut leaped upwards. He lurched from his seat, knocking the wine to the floor. The wrongness inside drove him close to panic. A part of him wondered why he could still breathe when his senses were telling him something too big was forcing its way up his throat. He fell to his knees and threw up.

  What had that bitch done to him?

  The thing was almost in his mouth. He felt stalk legs reach out of his throat and grasp his tongue, pulling up the body behind. He shoved his hand into his mouth to tear the thing free, but there was nothing to grasp. He gagged as his claw hit the back of his throat. He clenched his jaw shut despite his disgust. Could he trap the spell there? If so, Battu might still be able to do something about it. Whatever was inside him seemed to lose form again and the wrongness streamed up his nasal cavity, out his nostrils. It was so quick he didn’t have time to pinch his nose.

  A glowing light spilled onto the floor before him and collected together. It formed and reformed into the same shape – that of a butterfly. The lines grew more distinct, the shape more stable. The butterfly raised a wing and, as it moved, the glow was replaced by solid colour. The effect spread over its whole body as it hardened into reality. The butterfly waved its antennae and tested its wings, which were as large as hands.

  What was the nature of this spell? There had to be more to it than the creation of an insect; that was hardly fitting revenge for a dying mage. He suppressed his inclination to stomp on the creature, suspecting a trap. Instead, he took a step back and examined it. Its wings were pure white, their edges sky blue. Two large false eyes, one on each wing, had centres of the same blue and were ringed by concentric circles, yellow then scarlet. From the outer scarlet circle crooked lines ran down the wing, as though the colour had been painted on and then drizzled. Its body was as white as the wings; the legs and antennae, a chrome blue. It typified everything Kainordas folk found beautiful – all colour and garish excess without subtlety, like a whore displaying her wares. The sight of it filled Tyrellan with loathing.

  The butterfly beat its wings and launched into the air. As it began a lazy circle of the room, Tyrellan reached warily for his sword. The butterfly flapped towards him and Tyrellan backed away, uncertain of what threatened him or how he should react. He snarled and swung the blade, hoping to scare the thing away. The butterfly kept coming and he swiped at it viciously. The blow landed across the insect’s abdomen, but instead of slicing through, the blade bounced as though hitting stone. The butterfly didn’t appear to notice, staying on course as if nothing had happened. It was almost upon him! He backed away, swinging again, each blow meeting with the same resistance. Finding himself backed against the table, he dropped the sword to seize a chair, swung it with all his strength. The chair splintered to shards in the air and the butterfly continued unhindered.

  Despairing of weapons, Tyrellan tried to snatch the creature, but his hands could not even stop its wings from beating. It powered through his grip and landed on his shoulder. Horrified, he tried to push it off. The weight was no more than any butterfly, but the creature was as immovable as if frozen in time.

  Tyrellan leaped wildly, trying to shake it off, and landed hissing in front of the mirror. He drew a dagger and tried to pry it away, but only succeeded in cutting his own skin. He flung the dagger away, then turned and sprinted towards a wall, shoulder charging with all his strength. He bounced backwards with fangs gritted in pain. The butterfly pulled its legs free from where they’d been driven into his shoulder by the impact, less yielding than the flesh beneath them. It began to clean black blood from itself.

  Tyrellan fought to regain self-control. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him; it was having this thing on him.

  ‘Maybe you won’t like the cold,’ he muttered, ‘if indeed you’re a creature of light.’

  He retrieved his dagger, went to the iceplace and stabbed out a chunk of ice. Dark ice was so cold that it burned, but even when he set the chunk to the butterfly’s back, it took no notice. Tyrellan cursed and flicked the ice away.

  Without warning the butterfly fluttered from his shoulder and back across the room. For a moment Tyrellan stood still, watching it. Then, warily, he edged to the door. As his claw touched the handle the creature circled back towards him, but he was through in a flash and slammed the door shut. He went swiftly down the shadowy stone corridor.

  Behind him sounded a crash, and he spun to see the door hanging off its hinges. The butterfly flapped lazily towards him down the passage.

  He turned and sprinted with grim determination. At the least he should be able to outrun the revolting thing! He felt the beating of wings on his neck and the creature alighted once more on his shoulder. Tyrellan hissed in frustration, slowing to a walk. He bared his fangs at the butterfly.

  ‘Don’t get comfortable,’ he said.

  •

  The ancient throne Refectu seemed to spill out of the wall behind it, as if the shape of a throne had been pushed through molten rock then set. It was a part of the castle itself, made when Skygrip had been hewn from the mountain. Across its surface ran complex carvings, an entanglement of living things from all over Fenvarrow: the wing of a Graka, claw of a Mireform, petals of a demonflower, tusk of a Vortharg, branch of a weal tree, and hundreds of others all entwined. They spilled from the throne onto the wall behind, running out like ripples across water. To the eye they seemed frozen, but over time they moved, slowly as light travelling around a sundial. Faces turned and sank back into the stone; leaves twisted in an unseen breeze; mouths opened and closed with unheard words. They were not solid carvings, but reflections of the land the Cloud covered. It was said that during the rule of Assidax, as she expanded the Cloud across Kainordas, all kinds of light creatures had appeared
there too.

  Battu drummed his fingers on a row of fangs that had been erupting out of the armrest for some hours. He understood what it was like to get caught up in a blood frenzy – his time with the sharks had made sure of that – yet still it was infuriating. Corlas had been a Varenkai hero, had even fought Battu himself! Yet here he was killing dumb farmers, running the risk of execution. Such an end would not serve Battu’s plan at all. If Corlas was going to get himself safely inside the Open Halls, Iassia was going to have to prove his worth twice over. Battu drummed his fingers even harder, jabbing the sharp ends of the armrest fangs in under his nails.

  Tyrellan strode into the throne room – almost angrily, it seemed to Battu. Did Tyrellan dare to openly display anger towards him? A moment later the thought was forgotten as a colourful butterfly sailed in after the goblin. It followed Tyrellan across the room, landing on his shoulder as he came to a stop and bowed.

  ‘By the Dark Gods!’ exclaimed Battu in genuine surprise. ‘What is this creature, Tyrellan?’

  Tyrellan remained bowed, his voice sounding as if his fangs were bared. ‘I don’t know, lord. It appeared just now in my chambers – birthed, I suspect, from the magic implanted within me at Whisperwood. I cannot kill it, and it will not leave my side.’ Tyrellan raised his head. ‘Help me, Shadowdreamer.’

  Battu reached out with his finer senses, just as he’d done when Tyrellan had first announced the ‘enchantment’ he’d felt in his belly. As before, he sensed nothing. He moved down the dais steps to consider the butterfly more closely. ‘What a grotesque creature,’ he mused, reaching to touch it. Instead it launched from Tyrellan’s shoulder and flitted around Battu, coming to rest on Refectu.

  ‘In Kainordas they would call it beautiful,’ said Tyrellan, scowling. ‘Yet everything it has to offer is available at first glance. It is vulgar.’