Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘I never took you for an aesthete,’ said Battu.

  He scratched his chin, wondering what to do. He couldn’t disenchant something he couldn’t sense, so he opted for brute force instead. Extending a finger towards the butterfly, he raked it with blue lightning. The butterfly stayed right where it was, wings opening and closing slowly, ignoring the magic that passed over it. Battu made a fist and compressed the air about the insect with enough force to crush a skull to dust. The butterfly was not bothered. Suddenly Battu understood.

  ‘Ah, Tyrellan,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I can do.’ Muscles twitched in the goblin’s face. ‘You say the light mage cast this spell on you while she was dying?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘It’s a legacy spell.’ Battu chuckled. ‘The whore cast her legacy spell on you.’

  ‘I am pleased my lord is amused,’ said Tyrellan flatly, ‘but I do not understand.’

  Battu raised a hand towards the archway entrance. ‘Let us walk,’ he said.

  As he led Tyrellan from the throne room, the butterfly flew to join them. They passed the recess where the Castle administrator, Turry, sat with scrolls and ledgers piled about him, and came to the alcoves containing busts of past Shadowdreamers. Battu halted before one that wore a twisted half-smile partially displaying her sharpened teeth, with stone dreadlocks framing her narrow, snake-like eyes. It, like the other busts, was incredibly lifelike.

  ‘Assidax in her youth,’ Battu muttered. ‘I’d have liked to meet her. She gave Kainordas such a great deal of trouble . . . and was, apparently, a vigorous lover, if you could match her.’ He broke from his reverie and turned to Tyrellan. ‘This bust is the result of Assidax’s legacy spell. In fact, every bust here is the legacy of the Shadowdreamer it depicts.’ He pointed to an empty alcove. ‘That’s the place I have picked out for my own.’

  Battu opened his palms to Assidax’s bust, discharging such a massive burst of energy that it blew chips out of the wall . . . but left Assidax undamaged.

  ‘You see?’ he said. ‘To leave one’s image behind like this is traditional for Shadowdreamers. Even Raker,’ he nodded to where the scar-ridden Raker stared out from his alcove, ‘managed to leave one, despite the fact that I obliterated his body completely. The legacy spell is one that can be cast even from death, as the spirit is departing.’ Battu sneered at his former master. ‘Not that I begrudge him his memory as I did his life, but I couldn’t remove this statue of him even if I wanted to. A legacy spell cannot be destroyed. You could take a hammer to this bust for days and the only thing you’d break would be your wrists. Even if Skygrip itself were somehow reduced to rubble and these floors collapsed beneath us, I have a feeling these statues would remain where they are.

  ‘Unfortunately, Tyrellan, this light mage cast her legacy spell on you. I’ve never heard of it done this way before, and whether she attached her legacy to your body or your spirit I cannot say. Perhaps this butterfly will perch forever above the grave you sleep in. Perhaps it will follow you even into Assedrynn’s Well. Whatever the case, you two are going to be close companions.’

  Tyrellan stared out the corner of his eye at the butterfly on his shoulder. ‘Surely there must be a way. You cannot accept this travesty within your own walls.’

  ‘Ah, First Slave, is that a hint of desperation in your voice? I never thought I’d see the day. Who knows – perhaps the shadowdream will reveal something to me. Now come. I have a task for you and your new-found friend.’

  •

  Usually Tyrellan left Skygrip by a lesser door, but today he went to the main entrance cavern. The cavern was immense and circular, ringed by towering statues of Fenvarrow heroes and mythical creatures, some of which almost reached the roof, some fifty paces up. Between the statues were tunnels, above which hung cruelly spiked grates. If ever the enemy breached Skygrip, the grates could be lowered, creating further barricades against invaders. Other safeguards were the slots cut into the walls higher up, behind which were hidden passages from which archers could pelt arrows. At the north end of the cavern were huge hardwood double doors, thirty paces tall and wide, to the side of which stood a massive iron cogwheel. Turning it to close the doors took twenty guards, so the doors stood open most of the time, as they did now, letting in the grey light of day. There was little danger in leaving them so, since Skygrip was surrounded by a fort wall, on which guards kept constant vigil. Not to mention the powerful Golgoleth Ghost that manned the entrance itself, always ready to make a quick meal of the unwelcome – or anyone else it could get away with. Tyrellan thought he heard the ghost hiss at him as he passed, and he snarled in return. As he walked out, he ignored the guards staring at his new insect companion.

  He made his way to the fort armoury, a long flat building. The stop wasn’t part of his task, but fortunately he could combine Battu’s orders with his own purposes. Inside the armoury was a storeroom where Jacix, the head armourer, kept all the choicest weapons. Tyrellan surveyed the racks of deadly tools, tapping his belt buckle thoughtfully with a claw.

  ‘Er . . .’ said a voice beside him. Jacix had sidled in nervously and was now staring at the butterfly. ‘Can I assist you, sir?’

  Tyrellan glanced at him. It was not yet time to make his example. Instead he smiled, such a rare and unnerving sight that Jacix took a full step backwards. ‘I’m going into Mankow,’ Tyrellan said. ‘I need weapons.’

  ‘Of course, First Slave. Do you require aid in your selection, or shall I leave you?’ It was obvious from Jacix’s tone which option he preferred, but Tyrellan didn’t answer. Jacix quickly followed his gaze. ‘Ah,’ he said, moving to the sword Tyrellan was eyeing. ‘This would be a good choice. Fresh from the forge.’

  Jacix took the sword off the rack, turning it in his hands for Tyrellan’s benefit. It was longer than the one Tyrellan carried, with razor-sharp teeth on one side of the blade. Tyrellan thought it a cumbersome, stupid weapon, but it would appear fearsome to others and that was what he needed. He nodded, and Jacix busied himself finding the sword’s scabbard. In the meantime, Tyrellan picked up a small triple crossbow.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jacix proudly, noting Tyrellan’s selection. ‘May I invite the First Slave to test that out?’ He gestured to the other side of the room where three dummy soldiers stood lined against the wall, straw poking out of their stuffed heads.

  Tyrellan tested the weight of the bow, then aimed it at the dummies. On pressing the trigger three steel bolts sprang out of their grooves, one flying straight and two whistling off at diagonals. The bolt that flew straight lodged in the middle dummy’s head, while the others clattered against the stone wall.

  Jacix cleared his throat. ‘Not the most accurate weapon, of course,’ he said. ‘One would have to be standing the right distance from one’s marks in order to hit them all. But in close quarters, with enemies standing in proximity, this weapon could easily bring down more than one.’

  Tyrellan nodded, and Jacix quickly replaced the steel bolts. Tyrellan hooked the crossbow onto his belt and, satisfied, left the armoury and the cringing Jacix to make his way to Skygrip stables. Today he wished to be as visible as possible and a long-legged horse would serve that purpose.

  Soon he was riding through the outer gate of the castle walls, the guards having raised the portcullis quickly upon seeing him. They stared as he rode silently past, whispering to each other about their superior’s new adornment. Tyrellan bared his fangs, but remained facing forward. Soon, he promised himself. Soon they would cease to stare.

  Pebbles rolled away from the horse’s hooves on the loosely paved road running down the foothills of the mountain that Skygrip had once been. Tyrellan noted the conditions – he would have to assign some workers for repairs. It did not reflect well on the Shadowdreamer if the main road to his castle was unsound.

  Around him the earth was fertile, with trees and bushes plentifully popu
lating the thick blue grasses. At the bottom of the foothills was the Fenvarrow capital, Mankow, stretching out in ramshackle glory on an old flood plain through which no river ran any more.

  Tyrellan entered the city by the south gate. On either side buildings sprawled messily, most constructed from stone and wood, some with dried mud and thatch. There appeared to be no order, the wealthy living alongside the poor. Taverns, brothels and drug dens were all doing a steady trade as night approached, and glowing ice lanterns began to appear. Food vendors trundled carts along the road, and from a distant tavern piped the discordant music of a Graka band playing their knobbly wind instruments. Everywhere he went, people turned to stare and point at the colourful butterfly on his shoulder. He buried his rage just under the surface, letting it build, all the while taking a deliberately long route to the centre of the city. He turned into a side alley, heading towards the Mireform’s Maw, the tavern where, according to his spies, Heron had been staying. It paid to keep a watch on people and, with luck, she would still be there. At worst it was a starting point for the search.

  The tavern was three storeys high and tucked up tight against the buildings beside it. Verandahs off the rooms above overlooked the street at slanted angles. On the third storey an old Mire Pixie leaned against the railing, smoking a pipe and considering Tyrellan curiously. From inside he heard all the regular tavern sounds – laughing and shouting, the clinking of glasses, the clatter of dice. He dismounted and tied his horse to a railing, then walked up to the front door and into the building.

  The doors swung shut behind him. To his left was the bar, attended by a fat Arabodedas woman of middle age. Filling the narrow room were a number of round wooden tables, most of them occupied. To the side was a staircase disappearing up to the higher levels. A large iceplace on the opposite wall was glowing with a generous slab, and above it hung a painted carving of a Mireform’s head baring its teeth in a savage tableau. The denizens of the tavern – mostly men and goblins – glanced over to see who had entered. Tyrellan stared back, quite a sight with the fearsome collection of weaponry hanging from his belt and the butterfly on his shoulder. Silence fell. Evidently some recognised the First Slave, while others were merely taken aback by his appearance. All were quick to turn away from his steely black gaze.

  The butterfly launched itself to do a loop of the room, coming to rest on the bar before the bemused Arabodedas woman. Tyrellan followed it to the counter where he sat on a stool. ‘A mug of whatever you drink here,’ he said. As the bartender nodded and moved away, conversation began to filter back into the room. Tyrellan could hear that most of it now concerned him and his strange familiar.

  The woman plunked a mug of something brown in front of him and he flicked some coins onto the bar. As he raised the mug to his lips, the butterfly returned to his shoulder. Someone in the corner snickered.

  Not long now.

  ‘Don’t, Deeter,’ someone whispered. ‘It’s the First Slave.’

  Deeter, apparently too full of alcoholic bravado to heed his friend’s warning, sidled up to the bar next to Tyrellan. ‘Ho there!’ he announced, spit flecking his rubbery old lips and black Arabodedas beard. He waved a hand towards one of the tables. ‘My friends tell me you’re the great Tyrellan, the First Slave.’

  Tyrellan tapped the mug with a claw and inclined his head. ‘That’s right. And you, if I’m not mistaken, are Deeter the sot.’

  ‘Ooooooh!’ said Deeter, rocking back on his heels in amusement. ‘I should be offended, but you have me pegged. Listen there, Mr Slave – we was wondering something, if you aren’t too busy.’

  The bar had gone silent again, and Deeter was talking loudly enough for everyone’s benefit. Tyrellan forced a smile, trying his best to appear friendly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, ya see . . . the terrible Tyrellan we heard of, he don’t quite fit yer description. See, we never heard of him going around with a sweet little butterfly sittin’ on his shoulder.’

  Tyrellan waited a moment, taking note of the stifled laughs and nervous tension in the air. Then he swivelled on his stool, butterfly and all, to face Deeter directly.

  ‘It’s true, Deeter,’ he said, also loud enough for all to hear, ‘I’ve only just recently acquired this creature. A mage of the Halls gave it to me while she lay dying by my hand. It is a curse I will never be rid of, but it changes nothing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ chortled Deeter. ‘Well, p’rhaps you’ll allow me to buy yer new friend a drink? Barkeep – a thimble of your finest sugar water!’

  He thumped the counter with a laugh that set the whole bar laughing too, people banging their mugs on tables in appreciation of the joke.

  Tyrellan did a quick head count, then turned back to the fat barmaid, who was also grinning in amusement. Her grin froze as Tyrellan punched a dagger into the folds of her neck. As she toppled backwards from the counter, he turned to the startled Deeter and caught his jaw in an uppercut that blanked his eyes and sent him crashing to the floor. Twisting from his stool while drawing the fanged sword, Tyrellan ran it through a seated goblin at the nearest table. Another dagger left his hand and hit the goblin’s companion, who was scrambling to his feet. Angry shouts went up.

  Tyrellan smashed the sword through a chair that was being raised against him, then kicked a table savagely so it slid into those who rose behind it, knocking them to the floor. He flipped the table over onto their struggling bodies and leaped on top of it, up and down and up and down until all struggling ceased. As he did this, an Arabodedas rushed towards him with sword drawn, and a Mire Pixie flew through the air with claws extended. The pixie fell immediately with a dagger in his eye, and the sword of the other was deflected with a clang. Tyrellan smacked the man in the side with the fanged edge of his blade, raking flesh as he withdrew it.

  As he leaped off the bloody mass of limbs and wood, a mug glanced his skull and he reeled around, hurling his sword and pinning the thrower against the wall through his stomach. Only three remained standing, keeping well away from Tyrellan with weapons drawn, eyes full of hate and fear. Two, a goblin and a man, stood close together. Tyrellan flipped the triple crossbow into his hand at an angle that compensated for the height difference of his targets. The bolts whistled and his targets fell, steel protruding from their skulls. Tyrellan drew the last dagger from his belt and twirled it in his fingers, staring hard at the remaining man. The butterfly flapped back onto his shoulder.

  The man was backed against the wall, his sword held wavering before him. He was only young, his features soft, and he stared in horror at the carnage around him – the blood-spattered walls, the smashed furniture, the man pinned upright through the belly with limbs twitching. A puddle of urine collected at his feet.

  Tyrellan raised the dagger for him to see clearly and the young man whimpered in terror. Then Tyrellan slipped the blade smoothly back into his belt.

  ‘I am First Slave to the Shadowdreamer,’ he said. ‘It is certainly unfortunate that I’ve been cursed to carry this insect, given to me as I performed my duty to the dark. It is unfortunate, but it changes nothing. From now on, any who think to joke about it, to comment on it, even to look at it, will receive as swift a death as I can manage – and you have seen what I can manage. Stop looking at it!’

  The dagger left his hand as suddenly as it had reappeared there and the man cried out as it thunked into the wood by his head.

  ‘Now go!’ roared Tyrellan. ‘And warn all of my words!’

  For a moment the man was too afraid to move. Then he rushed to the door, dropping his sword to scrabble at the knob with sweaty hands.

  Tyrellan turned and walked up the stairs.

  •

  Arriving on the first level, he rapped on the closest door. No one answered. The whole tavern would have heard the fight and be lying low.

  ‘If I have to break down this door,’ called Tyrellan, ‘you will
not live to regret it!’

  ‘What do you want?’ came a quaking voice.

  ‘Does Heron still live in this tavern?’

  A sense of self-preservation in the unseen occupant kicked in quickly. ‘On the next level. Second door on the left.’

  Tyrellan gave the door a sharp kick to scare the coward inside, then continued up the next flight of stairs. In a silent hallway he found Heron’s door unlocked. On pushing it open, his nostrils were assailed by the stench of liquor, vomit and sweat.

  Apparently Heron had heard none of the ruckus downstairs. The crone lay face down and passed out on her filthy bed, an unlabelled bottle of black liquid still clutched in her spidery hand. Her hair was a tangle of damp grey strands sprayed over her bare back, and a wooden bucket of congealing sick lay on the floor beside her.

  Tyrellan scowled. He went to her cupboard, found a sack, and bundled her clothes into it. There was no jewellery, nor anything else of value – she must have sold it all. He reached down to shake her shoulder.

  ‘Get up, old mage,’ he said.

  She groaned, but gave no further response.

  He rolled her over and propped her up, wrapped a cloak around her naked torso, ignoring her feeble protestations. Then he hoisted her up and over his shoulder – she was light, the pasty old stick – and bent his knees to pick up the sack. Finally he turned and walked from the room with the unconscious mage dribbling down his back.

  Eleven / A Hero Returns

  Eleven

  A Hero Returns

  A Hero Returns

  The throne Borgordusmae had a great gold triangle as its back, almost twenty paces tall and wider at the top. It caught the sun and shone it over the court, the level of its brightness dependent on the mood of the Throne himself. Once, when Naphur had been in a great rage, Borgordusmae had shone with a brilliance that had never been forgotten – especially by the treacherous man quailing at his feet.