Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  ‘Maybe,’ she whispered to herself, and laughed as she dived.

  Twenty-four / Mission’s End

  Twenty-four

  Mission’s End

  Mission’s End

  As Naphur and Fahren bickered, Corlas stood at the window watching the slow fall of evening. They waited in a hall in the barracks for the return of Bel and M’Meska. Yesterday a sundart had brought news from Drel: the huggers had been exterminated, but the only survivors were his son and the Saurian. Proud as he was, Corlas was anxious to hear the full report.

  ‘Maybe we should send a welcoming troop to the east gate?’ the Throne was saying.

  ‘I don’t think that would be appropriate, lord,’ said Fahren, and Corlas silently concurred. ‘These are lucky soldiers returning from a botched mission. There’s no cause for celebration.’

  Naphur frowned, scratching a hairy arm. Before he could argue further, a soldier entered and saluted. ‘My Throne, the Drel survivors have arrived.’

  ‘Not Drel survivors,’ spat Naphur. ‘Drel victors. Now send them in.’

  Not long after, Bel and M’Meska entered. Corlas gave his son a smile and a nod, noticing dark circles beneath his eyes. Bel returned them both, looking relieved to see his father.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Naphur. ‘Well done, lad! And, er . . .’ He peered uncertainly at M’Meska.

  ‘Lady,’ whispered Fahren.

  ‘Never can tell,’ whispered back Naphur. ‘All right. Report!’

  In the absence of the troop leader, Bel did most of the talking. Corlas noted that when M’Meska did speak, it was to praise Bel. It was obvious that he had impressed her greatly. Saurians weren’t inclined to praise, but what she said of Bel made him sound like a special kind of warrior.

  With the official report over, M’Meska was dismissed and Bel sat down. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Fahren.

  ‘At Treewith,’ Bel said, ‘at the inn – there was a creature there. For some time I didn’t know what it was, but . . . it was a weaver.’

  Of the three older men, Corlas turned the palest.

  ‘A weaver?’ said Fahren. ‘Did you make a deal with it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank Arkus,’ breathed the mage.

  ‘It could not be seen, filthsome trickster,’ said Bel. ‘Neither M’Meska nor the others ever knew it was there. It got trapped in my mind somehow. I don’t pretend to understand. It tricked me, saying it was a spirit sent by Arkus.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘High Mage, I did not remember my lessons well enough.’

  ‘Stupidity is not a prerequisite to getting tricked by a weaver,’ said Fahren. ‘But you must tell us what happened, Bel, and leave nothing out.’

  Bel nodded and began a new version of his journey, this time including the weaver. Corlas listened intently. He’d wondered for many years if Iassia still watched the wards, and now he had his answer.

  When Bel finished, Fahren turned to Naphur. ‘This should be taken care of as soon as possible.’

  Naphur nodded, grim-faced. ‘This creature will be destroyed, Bel,’ he said. ‘Have no fear of that. A job for Baygis, maybe.’

  Hoped flared in Corlas. If Iassia were killed, he would be free! He could leave the Halls and . . . and what? Bel was no longer a tiny baby to be whisked away in the dead of night.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Fahren was saying, ‘you must try to understand that the bird is a deceiver and you’ve no cause to feel guilt for its actions.’

  Bel nodded blankly. ‘I know.’ Then: ‘My Throne, I have a request.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Restore me to the peacekeepers.’

  Naphur looked genuinely confused. ‘What?’ he said. ‘But you’ve already proved yourself. There’s no need to tread backwards!’

  ‘I don’t really see it as backwards, my Throne,’ said Bel. ‘I did well as a keeper. I would like to finish my term.’

  Naphur was stunned, and Fahren was quick to intercede.

  ‘It is time you rested, lad,’ he said, standing and placing a hand under Bel’s arm to bring him to his feet. Naphur was clearly annoyed by the intervention, but Fahren held his gaze until he silently acceded.

  Bel glanced from one to the other. ‘I’m sorry, my Throne,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise my request would irk you.’

  ‘You’re tired,’ snapped Naphur, ‘and aren’t thinking clearly. Go to bed. We’ll talk more of this tomorrow.’

  Corlas caught Bel’s eye, wanting to convey that he, at least, was not angry. Soon the two of them would discuss this again in private.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Bel said, producing the envelope from his trouser pocket. ‘Someone left this for Taskmaster Corlas at the Treewith Inn.’

  Corlas frowned as he took the letter.

  ‘Good night then,’ said Bel, bowing and leaving as Corlas thumbed open the letter.

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Naphur. ‘What was that foolishness?’

  ‘It is as Corlas has said before, my lord,’ answered Fahren. ‘Bel’s path may not be straight and narrow.’ He glanced at Corlas, who didn’t look up from the letter.

  ‘Anything of interest, Taskmaster?’

  ‘Just . . . tidings from an old acquaintance,’ said Corlas.

  His return to the Halls had forced him to become adept at hiding his emotions. Still, on seeing who had written the letter, it was a struggle to keep his features relaxed, to stop his hands from shaking. He couldn’t afford the Throne and Fahren becoming curious about this missive. The sins of his past could yet do him harm, and silently he prayed that Iassia would be found and killed. In the meantime, he read on. The writing was messy, but the words were definitely the bird’s.

  Taskmaster Corlas,

  Greetings, old companion. How goes it with you? I’d ask you in person, but you seem to enjoy the Halls so much as to never leave, even to visit a helpful old friend. This is deeply hurtful, but I console myself by imagining how happy you must be, reunited with your boy. He’s a smart little soldier, just like his father. He’s yet to murder the innocent, but there’s hope he’ll follow in your footsteps. Got a good head for bloodlust on him, believe me. I’ve seen it close up.

  I write to deliver a warning. You may consider yourself safe, tucked up snug behind the wards, but I am not without my options. I remember who you killed, Corlas. I can shame you and worse. What will your son think of that, and your enemy friends?

  By the way, I hear Losara is doing very well – that’s what we called your other half-son. Battu has named him Apprentice, so you may yet meet him again one day, perhaps when he leads the charge against the light?

  Good luck, dear Corlas. See you again soon.

  Your friend,

  Iassia

  Stiffly Corlas folded the letter. What did Iassia hope to achieve? To scare Corlas from the Halls with threats? Or coax him out in an attempt to find his other son? Certainly it had been shocking to receive his first ever news of Losara.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as if to himself, ‘isn’t that something. I never would have imagined old Velmy as one to get married.’

  He needn’t have bothered with casual lies, for he wasn’t being paid any attention.

  ‘He can’t accept responsibility for the entire troop!’ Naphur was saying. ‘He’s only one blade, not the troop leader or even penulm! Corlas, surely you agree?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Corlas, thankful for the steadiness in his voice.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘It is his first taste of blood,’ Corlas said. ‘The first time he has seen comrades die. That is a change for any new soldier. Also he will be worried because . . . he fears to lose control.’

  Corlas found r
esonance in his own words.

  ‘But he didn’t lose control,’ insisted Naphur. ‘You heard the Saurian. It sounds as if Bel was perfectly in tune with his sword.’

  ‘It sounds,’ said Corlas, ‘as if he went berserk. That can be a frightening feeling. To know that a battle can take you over, can drug you with screams, can make you forget your own senses . . . It is ecstasy to be in that moment, and only afterwards that you feel the peril.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I was a soldier too, Taskmaster,’ Naphur said. ‘Hence I know the experience is different for all of us. I don’t think you can assume to know what Bel is feeling.’

  ‘With all due respect, my lord,’ Corlas said levelly, ‘I do not feel that my authority over Bel, or my understanding of his feelings, can be dismissed by any man.’

  ‘Naphur,’ said Fahren, ‘we’d simply be giving Bel time to think things through.’

  ‘Mollycoddle him, you mean,’ said Naphur. ‘Swords are forged in the fire, and he needs to harden up. No other soldier in the army gets to dictate his own placement.’ He glared at them both, defying retort, but Corlas and Fahren remained silent. Finally, the heat went out of him.

  ‘Oh,’ he muttered, ‘very well. I know that Bel is no coward. And it was not dictating, it was a request.’ He scowled. ‘He may have his way.’

  Fahren leaned back in his chair and smiled at Corlas. ‘It is amazing how wisdom will eventually show through,’ he said.

  •

  With the distractions of the past few days dealt with, Bel found himself suddenly desiring Jaya sharply. It was as if he had put most thought of her aside, in order to concentrate on what had needed to be done – but now that he was back, and standing in The Wayward Dog, with no huggers to kill nor birds in his head, he remembered the smell of her, the sight of her moving above him, the way it had felt to lie together . . . There was nothing he wanted more in this moment than to be with her, yet she wasn’t here, and he didn’t know where she was, and he thought he might scream. He deserved to see her. What was the point of going off to be a hero if there was no girl to come back to? No wonder soldiers drank so much.

  ‘Jaya,’ he said, putting his ale down heavily on the bar and spilling froth. ‘I left a letter for her a week ago. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about, lest you want to make life difficult for yourself.’

  ‘I got it to her,’ said the bartender quickly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . . she took it. I’ve not seen her since. Said she was going away for a while.’

  ‘Going away for a while?’ repeated Bel blearily. He took a big swig, then wiped away froth with the back of his hand. ‘Going away for a while, she said?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did she leave anything for me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No, sir?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right,’ said Bel. ‘Well, get us another ale then.’

  ‘Excuse me for saying,’ said the barman carefully, ‘but sir seems very tired.’

  Bel squeezed the mug and shattered it to pieces.

  As the bartender stared at him like a cornered animal considering its next move, Corlas appeared by his side.

  ‘Don’t worry about my son, barkeep,’ he said, making Bel start. ‘He’s had a dark day is all. We’ll get a table out of the way.’ He laid some coins on the counter, then put a firm hand on Bel’s arm. ‘Send over a jug, and the rest for your busted crockery.’

  The bartender nodded in relief, and Corlas led a reluctant Bel to a table in a darker corner of the bar. Curious drinkers who had turned at the sound of trouble turned away again.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Bel distantly, not sounding as if he meant it.

  ‘The Throne is not in his best mood tonight,’ said Corlas. ‘But he is going to allow your return to the keepers.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bel. ‘Well. Good.’

  ‘He was right about some things though,’ continued Corlas. ‘You cannot take responsibility for what happened.’

  ‘If I hadn’t entered that . . . that state . . .’

  ‘You probably would have died too.’ Corlas shrugged. ‘And then where would we be?’

  Ale arrived, and Corlas poured it out. ‘It is the nature of battle, Bel. People die. Others survive. There is no good reason for it.’

  ‘I’m not pure,’ muttered Bel.

  ‘What?’

  Bel met his father’s eyes. ‘All my life I believed what Fahren told me. About the dark thing which left me at birth. That I was better than normal people because I’d been cleansed.’ He spat the word. ‘That was why I was destined to lead the light to victory, I thought. But I am not pure, Father.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Corlas sombrely. ‘None of us is that. The truth, son, is that I don’t think anyone really knows what happened to you. But I do know this: I know you now. And I know something about what you’re going through.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think perhaps I should tell you about my time at the Shining Mines.’

  Bel frowned, letting an unspoken question hang in the air.

  ‘Not the fanciful way I told it to you many times when you were a child, overexciting you before your bedtime,’ answered Corlas. ‘Skimming the surface and sticking to the parts that make the eyes of young boys glow. I speak now of the full account – a man’s account.’

  Finally Bel seemed to leave his own thoughts and take an interest. Corlas noted with amusement that the glow he had spoken of was back just as he remembered it. He laid his hands palms flat on the table.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘This is what happened when the shadow grew long at the Shining Mines.’

  Twenty-five / The Tale of the Shining Mines

  Twenty-five

  The Tale of the Shining Mines

  The Tale of the Shining Mines

  ‘In the year I turned thirty,’ Corlas began, ‘I was promoted from cerepan to commander and sent south to the fort at the Shining Mines. It was a posting desired by many young fools seeking the promise of battle. The fort, you see, has always been a tempting target for the Shadowdreamers. Not only is it the closest settlement to the border, but the mine itself is rich with the magical ore called shine. I, however, did not go there for glory. I simply went where I was sent.

  ‘The fort lies in the barren lands of southern Centrus. Dust and rock piles and eroded trenches and little else. Flat too, the fort visible on the horizon from a day’s ride away, atop the only hill for leagues around. When my troop and I arrived, we went up to the southern entrance, the only entrance – a portcullis cast of pure shine, my boy, is something to behold!

  ‘We were greeted there by Gerent Ateppa, a ropy man as hard as nails, with a shock of white hair. He bade us welcome to our magnificent new home. Very soon I knew the fort inside and out, for in truth there wasn’t much to know. Inside the towering grey walls the town was simple, nothing too fancy for us soldiers and miners, as dusty as the plains surrounding. In the centre of town, at the peak of the hill the fort was built around, was the entrance to the mine.

  ‘I led many patrols, and within a month I oversaw my first shipment of shine. It was packed into a crate only a few handspans wide – maybe so big.’ Corlas held out his hands. ‘I was surprised to learn that the mine produced only three or four such crates a year, but that each could have financed the building of a castle.

  ‘I quickly noted that many of the soldiers were uninspired by their long grey days of watching and waiting. I set about organising regular days of games and contests – must have been something of the taskmaster in me then too. I’m proud to say that for many they became the highlight of each month. The fact they gave soldiers extra reason to drill and train was merely a pleasant benefit.’ He winked at Bel.

  ‘My relationship with the gerent grew into fr
iendship. Ateppa himself was a charismatic leader, tenacious . . . and perhaps occasionally overly excitable. Privately I wondered if serving at the fort for ten years had left him a little unbalanced. For the most part, however, he was well liked by his soldiers.’

  Corlas leaned back and sighed, his eyes turning glassy as he stared into the past. ‘I have always been sorry I had to turn them against him.’

  •

  Corlas stood on the parapets of the southern wall with the cool wind off Fenvarrow blowing on his face and the first rays of the rising sun warm on his back. The juxtaposition reminded him that he was wedged between two worlds, in a no-man’s-land where even the weather was at odds. In the distance hung the Cloud, seething with menace. It too served as a constant reminder of their closeness to the enemy; although the fort walls were hundreds of paces high, it was the creeping darkness on the horizon that was truly daunting.

  From his vantage he surveyed the morning activity within the fort. Everything seemed normal: soldiers marched along the walls, lookouts watched from the turrets, and below the miners trailed up the hill like a line of ants. Turning back to the land outside, he glimpsed a rare speck of colour far below. He squinted, trying to make it out. It was a tattered piece of red cloth, snagged in rocks, flapping in the wind and . . .

  His blood ran cold.

  A shout echoed from inside the fort below. Alarm rang clear in the cry, and Corlas turned from the grisly view, knowing in his guts that something was very wrong. He went to the nearest stairway and down the inside wall, taking the steps three at a time. When he got halfway he leaned over the stone railing.