The Fall Of Celene (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 2)

by A. Evermore

  The woman who had spoken stood up. She was middle-aged, tall and heavily built. Erylin, her name suddenly came to him. She was a new officer, usually serving in the Feylint Halanoi ground armies, which is why Marakon had only briefly met her once or twice.

  ‘This is where they must have made it,’ she said, wiping the sweat from her cheek and leaving a smear of soot in its place. She passed him a dark glass vial which he took gingerly. He was more afraid of touching the vile stuff than she was.

  ‘The top is cracked,’ Marakon said, noting the sharp fissure.

  ‘There are four others, all broken,’ the younger, smaller woman said, still kneeling down. Her long light-brown hair was braided and hanging over one shoulder. The vials lay scattered amongst burnt debris. The remains of a fire used for making the stuff and probably cooking.

  A shudder came over Marakon. He could smell that strange sweet acrid smell of the Sirin Derenax and it seemed to make his soul shiver. He wondered if the others could feel the taint of black magic, of necromancy, that all elves could feel. Only Darad beside the dwarf female looked like he wanted to be gone as far away as possible from this place. The dwarf only scowled, her gauntleted hand clenching and unclenching the haft of her axe. Marakon felt like them both, that he wanted to flee this place and yet fight and kill every Maphraxie in the land.

  ‘What did you find over there,’ the dwarf asked jutting her chin towards where he had come.

  ‘The victims,’ was all Marakon said.

  Silence descended on them all as they stared at the broken vials. Marakon broke the silence.

  ‘To most of us this is nothing new. We all know the enemy and what they do. To fight and die is the choice we made. To be taken alive by one of them is never an option. This we are all taught well in the first training camps. Now we have a reminder why.’ Marakon turned to go. ‘Come, the enemy is not here. How long have they been gone?’ he asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Not more than a week,’ the younger woman said, ‘maybe even a couple of days.’

  ‘You’re a tracker?’ Marakon asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Marakon nodded. ‘Then our only question now is will they return? And if you’ll ask me I can’t wait for revenge,’ Marakon muttered as he left the room.

  Marakon licked his lips. He was annoyed at what he was beginning to feel was a wasted trip. He and his soldiers wanted to fight. Was this the only kind of victory they would be allowed to have? Maybe it was true what the people now whispered to each other in the inns late at night, maybe the goddess did indeed favour the enemy. Maybe Baelthrom was there to cleanse the land of them. Maybe many things, he thought irritably, I’ll leave those thoughts to the priests and priestesses in their temples far away and safe from this bloody battle.

  They moved less cautiously now through the charred remains of the village and discovered nothing more. The stone walls of the houses still stood, predominantly, but the thatched roofs and wooden beams were all gone. One inn remained whole and even one of the shop’s signs still hung though it was completely burnt and illegible. It hung half hinged and its rusty hooks screeched loudly in the increasing bitterly cold wind. It wouldn’t take much to fix the place and make it habitable again if crops could be grown, he thought. But that would not happen, not until the Maphraxies were gone for good and a long way from here.

  In groups of ten scattered around the village the Feylint Halanoi ate a simple lunch of dried fish, salted blue seaweed and dried apricots. Afterwards Marakon walked alone until he came to stand at the very edge of the village where the land fell away into the sea. Steep grey cliffs dropped down to an ocean swell that pounded deafeningly on the rocks. He scanned the horizon with his left eye looking for ships, both friend and foe, as he tried to fathom what the enemy was up to.

  They had left at most a week ago and he suspected they were nowhere nearby either. Why they left was a mystery, they had never left any gained ground before, so why now? He sighed. It was becoming obvious there was no point staying here. But he was under orders to at least sight the enemy. He could not return until then, yet he had no orders to push further north towards Drax. It would be suicidal to go too deep into enemy lands too soon, and foolish.

  If he sent half his ships back to base, taking some of their supplies aboard the others, they would have enough food to last a month. With only half of his soldiers they would probably travel quicker as well. Travel where though? There was no point going east for the same reason there was no point going north, it went straight into Maphraxie strongholds and he had no orders to go that far. There was only home or west.

  Whilst he was deep in thought, Erylin and Darad came up to him. He adjusted his eyepatch and turned to face them. Erylin carried her helmet loosely under one arm. Her hair was mousey and slightly longer than shaved off completely. A scar ran from the top of her forehead, into her hairline and down to her ear. Darad also carried his helmet and also had a scar, a vivid red one that ran across his chest just visible through the loosened collar of his shirt. Marakon knew that scar ran from his left shoulder down to his right nipple.

  Marakon grinned at them and under their querulous gazes he said, ‘What a bunch of scarred bastards.’

  They looked at each other and grinned. ‘Perhaps that’s why we are still here,’ Erylin said in her sharp northern accent. ‘There’s nothin’ like a Maphraxie blade to teach you a thing or two about survival,’ she rubbed her scar absently.

  Quiet Darad only grinned at her.

  ‘So, there are no Maphraxies here, what do we do now, Commander?’ she asked.

  Marakon glanced back to the village where the soldiers were finishing their lunch. ‘I’ve been considering that myself. There is still no sign of Bokaard and the other ships, though the runner will have reached them by now. I expect we’ll see them in the next few hours or so.

  ‘Our orders are to sight the enemy at the very least, which we have so far failed to do. If we turn back now it will be a wasted mission and yet we have been told not to go further north or east beyond Haralan.’

  ‘It would be a suicide mission if we did,’ Erylin said.

  ‘My thoughts are to head due west and search the other islands. Perhaps the frontline has moved now,’ Marakon said.

  ‘What about reforming a base here?’ Darad asked.

  ‘I would if we had the resources,’ Marakon agreed, ‘but we were sent here as a war party, not a settlement party. I have no orders to reform a base here so the decision is not up to me. However, the sooner our leaders know this island is free, the better. So, it is my thinking that we should send half our ships and soldiers back to base as quickly as possible to report on what we have found. They can then decide to send a recolonisation party here if they want.

  ‘We’ll take the supplies that the returning ships will not need and I’ll lead the other half of our fleet west, as far as we can until we sight the enemy or until our supplies run low.’

  Darad and Erylin nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ll take most of our experienced veterans, they won’t be needed on the return party, and a few new recruits to learn from them.’

  ‘The ships are here,’ Darad said, nodding towards the horizon. Marakon turned and saw the dark shapes of the Atalanph ships sliding into view.

  ‘Erylin and Darad; choose your most experienced soldiers and a few new recruits. I’ll brief everyone once the ships have dropped anchor and we are ready to board.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the said in unison.

  Once aboard the ships it took the rest of the day for the supplies to transfer between them to those that would be travelling west. Those that were not going showed a mix of relief and disappointment in equal measure whilst the others expressed only excitement. Later that evening Marakon stood watching the sun set as it turned the burnt remains of the village into brilliant orange.

  Blessed Woetala, please don’t let my boys end up like that, he prayed, thinking of the dead children in the warehouse, their crystal w
hite faces and soulless eyes were burned into his mind. But in a way seeing the atrocities committed by his enemy only served to make him stronger, his resolve hard as iron. It was the anger and the fury that kept him alive for so long, he was certain of it.

  When it was fully dark they set sail, five ships headed south back to Frayon and five headed west. The Atalanphian captains were happy now. Having rested most of the day and now travelling at night, they were in their element.

  Chapter 20

  Histanatarns

  FOR three days they sailed west following the islands south of Drax, but no sign of the enemy was to be found. By the fourth day the islands curved north signalling their approach upon the vast expanse of the Lost Sea, and it was not without a feeling of growing dread that Marakon looked out across that endless blue, for somewhere out there he feared the White Beast still lurked.

  The wizards had informed him and all the crew that Keteth had been destroyed by powerful magic coming from the dark moon and wielded by a mysterious young woman. Word moved swiftly amongst the wizards through their scrying abilities and whilst Marakon did not disbelieve them he found it hard to believe that a monster who had plagued the world for so long and destroyed their greatest heroes could be killed just like that by some unknown girl. It was always wise to be wary in any case.

  ‘A hundred years ago this sea was teeming with merchant ships and fishermen,’ Bokaard said, ‘my grandfather said the trade between Drax and Frayon kept the whole of Maioria flourishing.’

  ‘He came this far north?’ Marakon turned from the sea to look the big man in the eye.

  ‘He was a Farsea Gold trader,’ Bokaard explained. Farsea was the official name given to long distance merchant traders. ‘Trading gold with dragons was the hardest and most dangerous trade of all. Dragons are not known for their bartering skills and have no ability to control their temper, much like Draxians,’ he added with a laugh. ‘But if done well, and my grandfather was one of the best, one trade would set you and your family up for life.

  ‘My father after him was also a Farsea Gold Trader, but only briefly before he became a captain of warships, much like this one. We had so much gold in the family and yet no time to spend it! When this cursed war is over maybe I’ll be a Gold Trader too.’

  Marakon barked a laugh, ‘You and me both, we’d be the richest in the land. But don’t worry, I’d always let you bargain with the dragons…’

  Bokaard grinned, his white teeth gleamed in the light.

  Marakon turned back to the ocean and his humour dissipated. Before him stretched the endless glittering blue of the Lost Sea and behind him the last of the islands slowly slipped from view. Whether the White Beast was there or not the crew still whispered fearfully and he certainly didn’t trust this ocean. Would the Maphraxies be so far out to sea away from the living, the source of their Sirin Derenax? He doubted it. Inside he was feverish with frustration and he had difficulty hiding it. His soldiers shared the same frustration and, they too, were unable to hide it and frequently bickered amongst themselves.

  There was no choice but to return to port, a failed, wasted, mission. If they were to head to Drax they would need the whole Feylint Halanoi army and an extremely well-planned attack. It was highly unlikely the enemy would have left Drax as well. Something was up and not knowing what irritated the wits out of him.

  ‘Damn it,’ he sighed, slapping the wooden rails. ‘No sign, nothing, it’s as if the Maphraxies have never been. I do not want to head out into open water and spend weeks without seeing land. Captain, your thoughts?’

  Bokaard lifted his sunshields and squinted across the glittering calm ocean. He was quiet for some time before he spoke.

  ‘Not into the Lost Sea, Keteth or no, there is nothing there but endless ocean,’ he murmured. ‘Orders are “to sight the enemy”… If it were up to me, Commander, I’d turn north and follow the islands as close as we can until we either see the enemy or spy the towers of Draxa.’

  Marakon nodded. ‘Yes, it’s risky, but that is also what I have begun to think. We have two weeks of food aboard. How far until we can expect to see the city?’

  ‘Unless the wind picks up, five or more days,’ Bokaard replied, ‘but then again the wind always picks up this side of Drax, blowing in hard from across the Lost Sea. So I’d say four, maybe three.’

  Marakon nodded. ‘Sight the enemy… I have never failed an order before. What if they spot us?’

  ‘They will not be expecting us,’ Bokaard said, ‘and being few in number the wizards will be able to cloak us as we turn and run. These ships are the fastest in the water, too. It’s risky but I see no other choice other than returning on a failed mission.’

  Marakon rubbed his beard and nodded, ‘Sight the enemy, mission accomplished. Let’s do it.’

  No sooner had he finished speaking, Bokaard was barking orders to the crew. The change of course was signalled to the closest ship and the message was spread between the ships. Swiftly all five ships turned north west and after an hour or so the wind was filling their sails once more.

  Marakon watched the islands slip past. Those dotting the south west tip of the dragon tooth shaped land of Drax were barren, tall, treacherous and numerous. It was no surprise that the seas adjacent to this coast had become named Lost Souls’ Rest, those poor souls ship-wrecked north of the Lost Sea. The wind and waves were savage in winter and only the toughest black rocks seemed to be able to withstand the pounding. The ships kept well away from them as they moved north-west.

  ‘If we follow the islands we’ll soon see the mainland,’ Bokaard explained, ‘and at some point after we’ll be able to see the capital, Draxa, rising up hundreds of feet above us. Or whatever is left of it.’

  ‘When was the last time you were here?’ Marakon asked, ‘They cannot have sent the Feylint Halanoi this far north for years.’ He had never been this close to Drax the mainland.

  Bokaard gave a half-smile, ‘I was a boy and it was not a year before it fell to Baelthrom. I remember to this day because I was so terrified and excited to see a dragon. And when I saw the green lizard I wet myself,’ Bokaard laughed.

  ‘I did too,’ Marakon grinned, ‘though mine was black and stank of death. I thought Draxa was not accessible by sea?’

  ‘It isn’t, except to the King and Queen,’ Bokaard smiled mysteriously. ‘There are secret tunnels that lead from one or two very small coves and only the King and Queen and other such special types are allowed to know. My grandfather, father, and I were such “special types” because we were on an important journey to deliver a message from our then Queen of Atalanph and a gift of gold. Drax’s east coast was under attack, so we were given royal permission to approach the western coast. Do not ask me what the message was for I do not know, none of us knew.’

  For everyone else Draxa was only accessible across land from the bays along the southern tip, over the vast Ember Plains, through the narrow passes of the massive mountains called The Grey Lords and over the abundant grassy plains surrounding the capital.

  A remarkably impenetrable place to anything that does not fly, Marakon thought, and cleverly chosen too.

  ‘For all their might, their impenetrable fortress, their savage unforgiving lands, even the Dragon Lords could not withstand the might of Baelthrom,’ Marakon said, rubbing the strap of his eyepatch. A thought occurred to him. ‘Then you are one of the few who know of these secret tunnels?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Bokaard shrugged, ‘though I couldn’t tell you where they are because we were blindfolded. And anyway, the tunnels were hidden by magic and opened by magic.’

  Marakon sighed in disappointment. His vision of attacking Draxa via the secret tunnels suddenly dashed.

  ‘It is my thought, Commander,’ Bokaard began, ‘that we will see Dread Dragon scouts long before we ever set eyes upon Draxa. It’s a huge risk to come this close to the mainland. As soon as we so much as glimpse one of those devils I recommend the wizards cloak our presence and we turn back the
way we came as fast as possible. We’ll need at least ten wizards to take on just one of those bastards.’

  Marakon nodded, ‘It always was a big risk, and one day our risks will get us killed. But every time we defend rather than attack we miss an opportunity to push the enemy back. And I’m tired of defending.’

  Bokaard said nothing for a while as he continued to man the helm. Then he took a deep breath.

  ‘Just make sure you spot those bastards long before they see us,’ was all he said.

  Marakon had an uneasy night. The winds were strong and from the rocking of the ship he knew they were making good progress. But that wasn’t why he had trouble sleeping. The Maphraxies were up to something but he couldn’t for the life of him think what. The light coming through the porthole was growing and with a weary sigh he got up to meet the coming dawn.

  ‘We had to turn almost due west to avoid the rocks,’ Bokaard explained.

  Marakon looked at the vicious black peaks of rocks breaking the surface to their right. Some lay treacherously just under the water.

  ‘The only grave stones of the lost souls,’ Marakon said.

  ‘The rocks will be behind us soon and we can turn back into land. But we’re best stayin’ as far away from them as we can,’ Bokaard added. Dark rings under his eyes said he had not had much sleep either.

  ‘Sight the enemy, then back to port for a good night’s rest and a settled stomach. That’s what keeps me going,’ Marakon smiled at the thought. The queasiness had started early today, brought on by poor sleep.

  Bokaard gave a half smile.