Night Goddess (The Goddess Prophecies Book 1)

by Araya Evermore

  She shuffled along the rocks and pulled some seaweed pods off. She held one glistening pod to her lips. It smelt salty and rotting, but her mind was set. She bit down, chewed once, decided against it and swallowed. It was just salty and slimy. She waited for a minute with her eyes clenched shut, but her stomach did not complain or try to throw it back up. She swallowed a few more and felt a little relief from hunger.

  She watched the sea as she ate. The tide flowed north, it always did. It must have carried her further up the island in the way she had been heading. She couldn’t be sure, and thinking made her head hurt, but hope sparked in her heart. What if Kammam lay just over those rocks?

  She began hauling her aching body up them, but her smile faded when she reached the top. Ahead was nothing but more massive boulders and sheer cliff faces, there were no more pebbled coves like the one she was in. She sagged. With the tide flowing this way, could she swim? Her arms ached at the thought. But towards the port town the tide became slack and the sea its gentlest - which was why the port was built there anyway. The sea only lapped at the rocks here. What if she half-pulled herself along the rocks and half-swam? The water was warm this time of year and the sun was out to help.

  She looked down into the ocean. It was blue and crystal clear. A shoal of tiny silver fish darted amongst the billowing seaweed. Had everything been normal in her life, diving in would be positively inviting. Before she could think too much about it, she slipped down the rock into the water. She gasped at the cold, but after a moment of treading water, it became refreshing. Already the tide was trying to move her along, and she realised floating was easier than walking when it felt like every bone in your body was broken.

  With one hand always reaching for a rock, she half-swam, half-pulled herself along. It was slow going, but at least she was moving. After an hour or so waves of exhaustion flowed through her limbs. Where her clothes rubbed her skin it stung painfully. There appeared another pebbled cove, and though she was sorely tempted to stop, the sinking sun pushed her onwards. Her lips felt swollen from constantly being in salt water, and her throat was parched again. How much further could Kammam be? What if this was not even Little Kammy?

  As doubts crept into her mind, she began to do something she had never consciously done before - she began to pray. She prayed to Feygriene, the Goddess of the Sun, to keep her warm. She prayed to Zanufey, the Goddess of the Night and of the Waters, to keep the night at bay and the water to carry her safely. She prayed to Woetala, the Goddess of the Forest, and her lover Doon the Forest Lord, to keep her spirit strong and sharp. She prayed to the Source of All to lead her always to the light. Mostly she knew she prayed not out of devotion, but to keep herself awake, the cold at bay, and her mind from wandering into madness.

  She rounded a boulder and blinked in disbelief at what was surely a mirage. Ahead was a sandy stretch of beach at the end of which stood a crumbling building and stone wall. The harbour walls of Kammam! She cheered and kicked hard to reach the pebbled shore, her aching body forgotten. She pulled herself along the pebbles to the sand and flopped down onto her back, gasping and grinning in relief, the glorious sunlight rolling over her cold wet skin like honey.

  When she had caught her breath and dried off a bit she heaved herself up. Her legs were so tired she staggered often as she made her way to the harbour wall and the narrow steps leading up to an iron gate. When she got there she sagged against the wall for balance.

  What was on the other side? Maybe there were people going about their daily business, and the havoc wreaked upon the rest of the island had not happened here. Bakers selling freshly baked bread, the stench of the fish coming from the fish market. She grinned at the thought. But there came no shouts from market callers, no children yelling or dogs barking, there was only the sound of rolling surf. No, it would all be gone, all blackened and destroyed like her home, and everyone would be dead.

  Gripping the cold iron, she peered through the bars. Her mouth fell open. The once almost riotous harbour that she remembered so well - filled with boats of all sizes and painted in gaudy reds, blues and yellows - was devastated. It seemed every single boat, from tiny rowing boats to massive seafaring merchant ships, lay shattered and broken, gently bobbing and scraping against each other. There was not a patch of open water between the smashed debris.

  Blackened scorch marks covered everything that was big enough to float. The colourful paint was barely visible under the black. Her stomach tied itself in knots as her eyes swept over the carnage. She leant her head against the gate, feeling the loneliness close around her as if it were a solid thing.

  Not a living soul walked the scorched cobbled streets. There were no ships upon the horizon, only debris slowly making its way out to sea. Everything was terribly quiet, there weren’t even seagulls crying their ear piercing screams, perhaps the Dromoorai had destroyed them too. A great wave of destruction had flooded over the land, taking all life with it and leaving only devastation in its wake. For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered if the whole world looked like this and she was all alone.

  She swallowed. She would have to go down there, even if there were bodies. The gate was bolted, but with no guards to stop her she climbed over it. Her eyes travelled over the rows of burnt-out buildings. She tried to take in as little in as possible until she found the storehouses. At first, she couldn’t find the familiar blue doors next to the slipway, then she saw a black hole where once the doors had been. Keeping her eyes focused on that space, she made her way down the steps, and along the road.

  She peered into the darkness of the storehouse. The left half of the roof had collapsed, crushing all the wooden crates and barrels beneath it. To the right was a mess of overturned shelves, barrels, and crates of all sizes. The crates were nailed shut, but she found a fire axe hanging off its holder beside the entrance. The blade was blackened as was the hilt, but other than that it was still functional.

  She hefted the axe to the first box. On the third strike, the lid flew off. Inside there were only reins and bits for horses. She came to the next intact item, a barrel, and began hacking. Again she was disappointed for it contained only reels and reels of fish netting.

  She paused to rest, shoulders quivering, dreading the thought of surviving on raw seaweed. Her eyes fell upon the bolted door in the floor, hidden mostly by ash. She knelt on trapdoor and brushed the soot away. The bolt was too stiff to budge, but with the butt of the axe she knocked it free. It took some wedging and all of her strength to lift the door up. It fell back with a deafening bang, sending clouds of ash into the air.

  She covered her mouth and froze, afraid the Dromoorai would hear and come for her again, but the dust settled, and there was only the distant sound of the sea. She peered down the stone steps into the darkness. There was a lantern just inside the door hanging on a hook. A few twists of the knob and it clicked into life. She tiptoed down the steps, the lantern swinging in one hand and the axe in the other, poised for any attack.

  The lantern lit up a large room that extended beyond the light’s reach, and it was filled with delights. She raced towards the six or so crates of green apples and bit savagely into one. As she munched, she scanned the rows of deep shelves, they lined the walls all the way up to the ceiling some fifteen feet above her. There were ladders on rollers reaching up to the topmost shelves. She dropped her apple core and began to investigate each and every crate.

  She found everything from jams and pickles to cheeses and hard breads and crackers, to blackberry cordials, ciders, beers and fine Davonian wine. There was even a section of tropical fruits from southern Frayon. They were always far too expensive for her to buy, and she didn’t even know what some of them were called.

  She grabbed a banana and between that and mouthfuls of bread, jam and swigs of apple juice, she felt a peace wash over her that brought tears to her eyes. For the moment it seemed all the hardship had come to end, the end of suffering and struggling and fighting to survive. She couldn’t stop the te
ars, and now her belly was full, she lay curled up on the cold stone floor and let them come.

  Eventually, it was the cold that made her sit up. There was only the faintest glow coming through the trapdoor above. The sun must have set by now. She wiped her eyes, felt soot and salt and tears smear across her face, and wondered how awful she must look. Good, it would hopefully scare any attacker away.

  She picked up the lantern and axe and delved deeper into the underground room. There was enough food here to keep her alive for months, but she needed clothes. On the right side of the room, opposite the food, there were various crates and boxes that, after prying them open, revealed cookware and utensils, all to do with food. But towards the end of the room she found a box of thick cotton aprons and in another a leather jerkin. She pulled them on.

  There were several coarse horsehair blankets that served as packing material. These she collected and looked for a place to make a bed. To the left of the steps was a dark empty space and she put the blankets there. Anything coming down the steps would not see her, and she would be able to escape more easily. Down here was sheltered too. Though the bed was rough and itchy she could not stop the sleep that stole over her within moments of turning off the lantern.

  A brilliant white light awoke her. She sat up and squinted into it, her heart pounding. Either her eyes adjusted, or the brightness dimmed, and she could just about make out the tall form of a woman. She could barely see her features because the figure was made of light. She backed away from it and pressed herself into the wall.

  ‘Issa,’ the voice was strained and came from far away as if the being struggled to maintain its presence. ‘Do not linger here, they will return.’ The image flickered briefly.

  ‘No, wait,’ Issa gasped, now terrified the figure would disappear and leave her alone. ‘Who are you? Who will return? The Dromoorai?’

  ‘Yes,’ the figure said, and faded almost to nothing before returning dimmer. ‘Seek the seers or the priestesses of the Temple.’

  ‘Where? On Bigger Kammy?’ she asked.

  ‘No, all gone, only Frayon…’

  She barely caught the last word as the light faded and complete darkness closed in. She lay back down wondering who the figure had been, but her body was still so exhausted that sleep swept over her once more.

  Chapter 9

  The Fearsome Four

  ASAPH glanced at Coronos and smiled, relieved to see that his father had fallen back to sleep and was snoring softly. He turned away from the sleeping man and peered between the window slats. Above the canopy of trees and roofs, the sky was brightening with dawn.

  He quietly slipped on his boots, and tiptoed out of the room, grabbing his pre-packed breakfast sack and sword (actually it was Coronos’ sword, though he had lent it to Asaph) on his way out. He moved on silent feet along the carved wooden platforms between the tree houses.

  Movement ahead caught his attention, and his eyes settled upon the crouched figure of Gurapoha at the opposite end of their row. Even at his old age, he sat cross-legged on the steps of his house, thin tendrils of white lintel weed smoke curled up above his head. Gurapoha was always up early, apparently talking with the tree spirits when the world was quiet. Asaph usually slept late and rarely saw the shaman.

  Gurapoha smiled, causing a thousand wrinkles to bunch up around his cheeks, and lifted his pipe in greeting. He held out his open hand with palm upwards, curled his fist, and tapped against his heart once in a swift fluid motion. Asaph smiled and held his closed hand forwards, then opened it with his fist facing down as if dropping something, thanking the old shaman for his wish of safety and good fortune today.

  There were many such hand gestures they used, some long and complex. It helped to communicate across the distance between tree houses and to those upon the ground. Sign language was invaluable when defending against a goblin war party.

  Asaph could feel the shaman’s eyes following him as he made his way to the Down Rope. He descended hand over hand and jumped the last six feet to land with the faintest thud. The old shaman was like a grandfather to him, and he knew Gurapoha felt the same about this stranger who had come into their tribe, especially when he discovered the boy could see people’s auras.

  Asaph had become somewhat of a student to Gurapoha, even learning a little of the shaman’s skill to travel with the mind and leave the body behind. Though he would never take the shaman’s place, only a Kuapoh could be a shaman of the Kuapoh people - another thing that made Asaph aware that no matter how much this was his home, he would never fully be a Kuapoh.

  There was more to their relationship though, and a cause of much thought for Asaph because he knew that the old shaman knew he was a shape-shifter, and possibly even a Dragon Lord. Often Gurapoha listened without judgement to Coronos’ stories of their homeland far away. The shaman held no such prejudices and superstitions that most of the other Kuapoh people did. He was a shaman after all, and open-minded by nature.

  Gurapoha could speak goblin. Combine that with his ability to travel with just the mind, and Asaph figured that was how Gurapoha had come to know his secret. A long time ago Gurapoha had asked him about the bear he had saved, but Asaph, a little boy afraid, had said only, “We both ran away.” Asaph could see it in his eyes, they said: “I know what happened. I know what you are… But I shall not tell,” and that made Asaph respect the old shaman more than any other, forging a strong bond between them.

  Asaph ran through the forest up towards the Meeting Tree at the northern most tip of the village. It was called the Meeting Tree because that was where all the important gatherings occurred, either just amongst the shamans or involving the whole village. He ran so silently, a skill that was the envy of even the most experienced Kuapoh hunter, that the herd of deer grazing before the Meeting Tree did not hear him.

  He dropped to a walk, marvelling at their big brown eyes and massive ears swivelling backwards and forwards. Picking up his scent, their heads jolted up in unison as if they were all one being, but they did not run. Six pairs of eyes watched his slow approach, and then they too walked away, casually deciding it was time to move on anyway. He watched their white tails flicking up and down until the last disappeared through the foliage.

  A thump came from behind, a heavy footfall upon grass and before he could turn something exploded into his back, flinging him several feet forwards to land on his face. He instinctively rolled, but the massive beast that had him in its strong grip rolled too, and together they tumbled. Asaph sighed in exasperation and became floppy, making himself as heavy as possible as he lay face up on top of the bundle. Laughter came from the trees and muffled mirth from beneath him. After a moment he began to laugh too.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you lot, I might have touched them. No doubt it was your ugly face that scared them away, Jommen,’ Asaph said.

  He didn’t help the young man beneath him, and lay there heavy as Jommen struggled to push him off and stood up, still laughing hard. Jommen’s white teeth flashed in the dawn light, his short dark brown hair flopped into his golden eyes, and he brushed it back roughly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to startle you and your girlfriends,’ Jommen jested and reached a hand down to pull him up. Asaph grinned and gripped his friend’s arm.

  Jommen was the same age as Asaph, the same height, had the same sense of fun and adventure, and annoyingly played the same tricks and jokes as Asaph did. Apart from the colour of their hair and eyes, the only thing different about them was Jommen was married with two children. Asaph did not even have a girlfriend, much to his secret despair. He’d had a girlfriend once when he was a teenager, but that didn’t really count. That girl was the grinning, dimple-cheeked, muscular woman walking up behind Jommen, her arrow notched, but lowered. She too was married with children, and now nothing more than a good friend.

  ‘Oliamah is waiting patiently for me, you know that,’ Asaph snorted, speaking of the dark-haired woman he had briefly met at the midsummer’s fires last year, a time whe
n the different villagers travelled far and wide to visit each other and celebrate. Or was it two years ago? He couldn’t remember. Sadly no Kuapoh woman, no matter if they did indeed like him, and he could tell from their coy looks around the campfire that they did, none were willing to brave being with a non-Kuapoh man, not least one from a far different land, even if he had grown up amongst them.

  Jommen laughed. ‘Of course she is. You know what the Surkan are like, they say one thing and mean another. But I’m sure you are right,’ he winked.

  ‘Leave him alone, Jom,’ Kahly scolded. Her frown turned into a smile as she greeted Asaph with a crushing hug. He returned it warmly, always surprised at how strong she was. ‘Hey Zaph,’ she called him by his nickname. ‘You’re early, it must be a first,’ she grinned.

  Asaph pretended not to hear as he brushed his shirt down and adjusted his sword belt. They were all dressed similarly in long jerkins cleverly woven from thin strips of dagono tree bark. When woven in a particular way it was impenetrable, and it served as armour to protect against sharp claws or goblin knives. The bark was also used to make rope, and never had Asaph known one to break in all his life. Underneath they wore softer cream or tan shirts, and tight or loose trousers to the knee.

  Only their weapons were different. Asaph had a sword, Kahly a bow, Jommen two thick knives in his belt, and what seemed to be a walking stick with a spike, so Asaph pointed out. Jommen feigned a laugh.

  ‘No Tillin?’ Asaph asked as they started walking. The skinny younger man made up their “Fearsome Four” as they were known, although mostly amongst themselves.