Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  As he stepped into the wood, he relaxed a little, his physical presence being easier to hide amongst cover. He moved between trees like a floating ghost, questing out thinly with his senses, trying to detect the creature without it detecting him in return. Animals moved under bushes or along logs, oblivious to his presence. He paused in the shade of a big birch. He was close to the creature now, he was sure of it. There was a gap in his magical perception, something of the shadow that he knew was there but could not make out, a blotchy silhouette. Easing slowly around a tree, he examined the branches above. Perched on the branch of a clawberry tree, pecking at the corpse of a finch, was the weaver.

  Its head snapped up, a strip of flesh dangling from its beak. Even as Baygis realised it had seen him, the bird was away, a bright flash through the trees. Baygis broke into a run, moving unnaturally fast.

  Idiot mage, came the weaver’s voice in his mind. I am of the shadow, yet you stand in shadows to elude me?

  Baygis could sense the bird getting away and he burned magic for fleetness, tearing recklessly through the trees, so quickly that his feet hardly touched the ground.

  The bird’s voice came again. Don’t they teach you anything these days?

  They teach us not to prattle when we need to flee, returned Baygis.

  Stretching out his hands as he ran, he conjured a sphere of light. ‘Seek,’ he told it, and it shot off into the canopy. Ahead of him the bird chirped in panic as the sphere caught up and suffused it, making it convulse and hurtle to the ground. It struggled to right itself, powerless against the gold bonds of energy that now pinned down its wings. As Baygis reached it, the effort of his run caught up with him. He sank to his knees before the prostrate weaver.

  ‘What is your name?’ he said between heavy breaths.

  The weaver’s blood-drop eyes swivelled to the mage who towered over him. ‘Die screaming, Varenkai.’

  Baygis waggled his fingers. Inside the bird’s body tiny lines of fire ignited in pathways. It screamed, a sound like a kettle boiling. Baygis dropped his hand and the pain ceased. The weaver’s yellow chest rose and fell with uneven gasps.

  ‘What is your name?’ said Baygis.

  ‘Iassia,’ said the bird.

  ‘I’ll have your true name as well. And it will depend entirely on you how long you must remain in pain before you speak it. If you answer my questions, release will come swiftly.’

  Iassia’s tiny head fell back against the grass. ‘Release?’ he said contemptuously. ‘You think that is what such a death would bring me?’ He twittered bitterly. ‘It does not, I assure you. You’ll never have my true name.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Baygis’s fingers curled and the fiery pain spread again in myriad tiny threads that crisscrossed every part of Iassia’s body. The mage waited patiently as the weaver writhed. His scream became soundless, his beak frozen open, his eyes bulging wide. Eventually Baygis dropped his hand.

  ‘Your name,’ he said.

  Iassia didn’t respond. His eyes closed and his wings went limp.

  ‘I know you hear me, bird.’

  Iassia opened an eye. His voice, when it came, was scratchy, ruined by the scream. ‘You are a fool, mage. I will endure you forever before I speak my true name. Go ahead and convert all your power into pain. Once you are empty, let the other mages of the Halls work in shifts, burning me through day and night. I will still outlive you and all your kin. I can wait until Kainordas falls to time itself, and when the stones of the Open Castle lie in ruins grown thick with moss, I will emerge and fly away, and still you won’t have heard my name.’

  ‘There are other ways to find it, as well you know,’ countered Baygis calmly. ‘Perhaps I should try one of your own tricks.’

  ‘What?’ said the bird, but it was too late.

  Baygis drove a mental spike into Iassia, entering his mind with stunning force. He knew he could not match the weaver in a prolonged test of psychic strength, but the suddenness and violence of his attack was enough to wedge himself inside. He felt Iassia’s blocks go up, and raised his fingers above the bird once more, distracting it with physical pain. The blocks faltered and Baygis broke them down, swinging a hammer in Iassia’s head, not concerned with the destruction he caused. Iassia screamed mentally as well as physically, and Baygis seized what he’d come for.

  ‘Found it,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ whispered the bird in true terror.

  ‘Iashymaya Siashymor. A pretty name for such an ugly soul.’

  ‘You have no right!’

  ‘Wish to be sent back to Arkus, little one?’

  ‘No! Please!’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll answer my questions now.’

  ‘You’ll kill me either way.’

  ‘So you still want pain until the moss grows thick on the castle ruins?’

  ‘No. No. Though, fortunately for me, I don’t think I have to be that patient.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Baygis.

  The bird raised his head. ‘Behind you.’

  Baygis heard the whiz a moment before the arrow’s impact knocked him from his knees. Reflexively he rolled and sent a stream of liquid fire back towards the source of the attack. There was a short shriek as the fire hit someone, followed by a sizzling that was even louder. Baygis stumbled to his feet, throwing up guards against further attacks. He glanced to where the bird had lain and cursed to find his net had failed and it was gone. Sending out his senses with none of his former subtlety, he was just in time to feel Iassia flitting out of range of any useful spellcasting. Sharp pain killed his concentration and his hand went to his shoulder. He winced as his fingers closed about the shaft sticking out his back. Best to return to the Halls and let someone else remove it – healing was not one of his strengths.

  He cursed again.

  Trying to ignore the pain, he went to the body of his assailant. Smoke belched from the charred corpse and the smell of roasted flesh filled the air. It had been a Black Goblin, its lips melted away to reveal a permanent snarl. One of Battu’s rogue archers? There’d been no sign of them for years. Perhaps the bird had managed to call it, but it had to have been very close.

  One of its eyes rolled in the socket.

  Baygis tensed, ready to attack – but there was no way the goblin could still be alive. He watched in disgust as an insect-like leg pushed from under the goblin’s eyelid, hooking barbs onto the remains of the cheek. The leg tensed and the eyeball rose in the socket, other legs coming free beneath it, and clear wet wings. It was a bug-eye, Baygis realised, a creature that linked the sight of its host to the Shadowdreamer. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he stabbed the thing back down into the eye socket. Its legs whipped about frantically, lacerating the grilled flesh of the goblin’s face.

  Had the Shadowdreamer been watching?

  He sighed at the failure of his mission, and turned to make his way painfully home.

  •

  Battu’s eye refocused, joining his other in true sight. His link to the bug-eye had been severed.

  The archer hadn’t killed Naphur’s boy, which would have been a pleasant bonus. At least the bird had escaped. Part of Battu considered Iassia’s ordeal just punishment for not discovering sooner that Bel had been in the open. As it was, the assassins he’d sent into the area were too late – Bel had disappeared back through the wards by the time they’d arrived. He’d left the goblins there in case Bel became exposed again, but now the Throne would know there were Fenvarrow operatives close to the wards. They would have to withdraw.

  Battu sank back in Refectu, the vision from other bug-eyes flicking through his gaze.

  •

  Quickly and painfully Iassia flew, shaken and angry and scared to his bones. No mortal before Baygis had ever learned his true name – the fate all weavers feared the most. He shuddered at the thought of what Arkus might have in store for any weavers who were returned to him.

  He would bring destruction to these people, he swore it to himself. H
e would make them pay for what they’d done, for making him feel this way!

  Fluid rose in his throat and he set down clumsily on a branch. The face of Baygis rose in his mind and he shivered and quaked and twittered in terror.

  Twenty-seven

  The Isle

  From above Losara could see how small the Isle of Assedrynn actually was. It was smooth, flat black stone sitting low in the sea, apart from a small hill that rose at one end. For a traveller sailing dark waters under dark skies, it would be all but impossible to find without the help of the gods.

  ‘South,’ said Assedrynn, an unseen presence by his side, and they sped away across the water. Beneath, a white dot appeared and they dived towards it. Losara saw the white was foam turned up by the bow of a boat and that Battu lay inside, stretched out with his eyes closed.

  ‘He dreams, as you did,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Of the depths. Riding with the souls beneath. But he does not move between them, he stays with one. Look.’

  The sea rushed up to meet them and Losara braced himself – but there was no onrush of cold or wet as their ethereal forms plunged below the surface. Deeper they went, until the shape of the boat was a dot once again, this time above them. Rock pinnacles jutted out of the ocean floor, and long weeds waved in the current. Sharks emerged out of the black, matching the progress of the boat above. At the front swam the largest, its great bulk mottled with scars, skin straining as if it barely contained its flesh.

  ‘Battu is there,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Inside. He drives the leader to hunt even when sated, to eat more than its share and leave the others hungry. Such is the nature of his greed. Power alone does not make him happy, only its assertion. That is why he has failed in his duty as Caretaker.’

  ‘What is meant by “Caretaker”?’

  ‘Come.’

  The world blurred as they rose and left the sea. After a time Losara gained the impression of land beneath them, and soon they slowed. Ahead loomed the border of Fenvarrow, a curtain of light falling through the air, with bright Kainordas beyond. The Stone Fields crawled with movement. There were waves of Arabodedas, Vorthargs, goblins, low-flying Graka, and war engines burning. They clashed with troops of Varenkai, Saurians and Zyvanix wasps. There was no battlefront; all was muddied to chaos as the peoples of the world slashed and tore and broke each other.

  ‘This was the failure of Assidax,’ said Assedrynn. ‘We named her Warmonger and gave her power, but she was beaten back from the Shining Mines and pursued into Fenvarrow.’

  They circled closer towards a figure standing on a rise in the midst of the battle. Losara recognised Shadowdreamer Assidax, her tattered skirts whirling as she twisted left and right, screaming defiance and gnashing her teeth. A rain of arrows fell upon a group of Arabodedas nearby, and from those perished Losara saw something rise, like a black wisp of smoke.

  ‘Souls,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Beginning their journey to our Great Well.’

  Assidax raised her hands, weaving and incanting. The black wisps swirled as if caught in a gust of wind, and blew back into the corpses of the fallen. Limbs twitched and the dead rose, snapping the arrows off their bodies.

  ‘Souls denied passage,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Denied death. And we, the gods, are denied the power we gain when they return to the Well. And this, also.’

  A group of Saurians was being outnumbered by Black Goblins, who hacked resolutely at thick reptilian scales. Some of the Saurians managed to spring free, but many were slain. As they died, glowing globes of light rose from each and began floating towards the border. Again Assidax made her necromantic gestures and again the souls were pulled back to their bodies – blackening as they came, as shadow took them over.

  ‘Born of light, but they will never find their way to Arkus’s Well,’ said Assedrynn. ‘They are changed by Assidax, by her magic. They are ours now.’

  Time began to pass more swiftly and the battle sped up to a crashing blur of shapes and colours. As it slowed again, the battlefield was emptying. Kainordans were fleeing across the border, beaten back by an army of the dead.

  ‘They retreat,’ said Assedrynn, ‘but there is no victory. Assidax has used up much of Fenvarrow’s army yet gained no ground. Worse, she does not release the dead, believing she can retain control of them. While they are lesser creatures than in life, they are hard to keep in such numbers. Most of these will wander and disperse. They will flee to the forgotten corners of the world, the edges of settlement, to forests and deep lakes. They will hide in holes and rot to unliving dust and still their souls will not return to replenish our Great Well. Thus we, the very gods, are weakened.’

  The vision swirled and now they were inside Skygrip, and before them on Refectu sat Battu.

  ‘ Caretaker we named him, and Raker before.’ Anger sounded clearly in Assedrynn’s voice. ‘Rebuilder. Healer. Keeper of Fenvarrow. Restorer of the shadow’s might, that it may be ready for the prophesied child to wield. Hunter of the unliving, returner of souls to the Well.’

  Gazing upon the hard face of Battu, Losara understood. The gods had charged him to be a peaceful Shadowdreamer, opposite to his desires and his very nature – and he had openly defied them. He’d attempted to storm the Shining Mines, depleting the very forces he’d been ordered to rebuild and strengthen for Losara. After his failure, Battu had carried out initiatives to cull Fenvarrow’s undead, but always they had seemed half-hearted. Losara now realised that the dark lord only undertook these actions to redeem himself, not through any wish of his own.

  ‘Caretaker in name no longer,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Nothing given in its place. Do you understand, Losara Shadowhand?’

  ‘I do.’

  •

  Losara awoke.

  He was floating in the sea, surrounded by the gods. As massively as they towered above him, and strange as they were, he felt safe. Mokan and Mir flew towards him, their feet dragging in the water as they beat their powerful wings. When they stopped, they sank into the sea up to their waists.

  ‘You’ve seen?’ shrilled Mokan. ‘The failure of the Caretaker!’

  ‘The sharks,’ growled Mir. ‘He swam too long with the sharks!’

  ‘I have shown him,’ rumbled Assedrynn.

  Lampet’s head appeared around Assedrynn’s bulk, snaking along with his eyes flashing blue. ‘The pilgrimage,’ he hissed.

  Assedrynn heaved a fin from the water and Lampet weaved out of its way. As it crashed down, Mokan and Mir howled laughter, while Chirruk opened and closed her claws with great cracks that resounded across the sea. Lampet gave a throaty chuckle and sank a little lower in the water.

  ‘Enough,’ said Assedrynn, and they fell silent. ‘Losara, your time here is almost over. You know your ultimate purpose, but we offer a way forward. The dream has thrown up many possibilities, many futures …some a consequence of your next steps.’

  ‘A pilgrimage,’ hissed Lampet.

  ‘A pilgrimage,’ whispered Mokan and Mir together.

  ‘The futures that hold the most hope,’ said Assedrynn, ‘appear to be born from the undertaking of a pilgrimage.’

  It seemed a strange thing to be so important, but Losara said, ‘As you wish.’

  ‘Begin from Skygrip.’

  ‘Any particular direction?’

  ‘No,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Let curiosity lead you. Seek to know your land. One other thing …’

  Elsara, the lionfish, had been sleepily submerged almost past her dark oval eyes. Suddenly she reared out of the water, her spikes sticking in all directions. She spoke in a rasping, echoing voice. ‘Do not go alone.’

  ‘Do not go alone,’ muttered Mir, and a second later Mokan repeated it. ‘Do not go alone.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Losara.

  Assedrynn stirred. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘it expands our understanding to see things through another’s eyes. And company will make you travel true, not just whisk from place to place.’

  ‘What do you mean, whisk?’

  ‘Time to depart,’ said A
ssedrynn, and Losara realised the great fish had been slowly sinking into the sea. ‘Even at the world’s edge we cannot long remain. Lampet will eke out a few more moments. Goodbye, saviour child. Carry our futures wisely.’

  Silently the gods sank into the sea, all except Lampet. Once they were alone, the serpent’s eyes flashed green. ‘Return to the Isle, and up,’ he said.

  Losara swam towards the Isle and hauled himself out at the low end. As he walked up the hill, he noticed again the tiny blue flowers, growing not out of cracks but from the rocks themselves. Stooping by one, he turned its face gently towards him. Salt crystals glistened on dark petals, and it was so small and perfectly formed that it somehow seemed to stand out from reality.

  ‘It would die anywhere but here,’ came Lampet’s voice over his shoulder. ‘It is too used to salt and rock and hard and cold. If living were easy, this would die.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Losara.

  ‘First to go if the light triumphs.’

  Losara continued to the top of the hill. In the sea surrounding were loops of Lampet’s great body, but no boat.

  ‘I don’t see the boat,’ he said.

  ‘No more boat for you, Shadowhand.’

  ‘How am I supposed to travel?’ Losara asked, but he almost felt he knew the answer.

  ‘Now that you are more shadow than flesh,’ said Lampet, ‘you need not anchor when you travel the shadowlines. You can simply go.’

  Satisfaction suffused Losara at this confirmation – what freedom he now possessed. He could whisk anywhere in the entire world, and appear at the other side whole and complete. Unlike Battu, he’d never have to fear the path of shadows he travelled breaking or shifting behind him, cutting him off from his mortal body.

  ‘You understand,’ said Lampet.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Anything more to ask? My time dwindles.’

  Losara remembered his promise to Tyrellan to ask the gods about the butterfly. He described Tyrellan’s predicament to Lampet and the serpent’s eyes glowed red. There were answers given, but Tyrellan was not going to like them.