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

by A. Evermore

  Many of the younger unseasoned soldiers were dead, despite the efforts of his more seasoned soldiers to protect them. Being outnumbered left one only able to protect themselves. It had been his decision to bring them along; his guilt to shoulder alone. If he survived this day he knew full well that guilt would come to him in his quiet moments and rip him apart. So, for the most part, let the relief of battle consume him, be too busy fighting for his life and keep that guilt at bay. He could still feel the rage though and he nurtured it as he swung his sword.

  In grim fury Marakon fought savagely, as he always did, alongside his soldiers. His wound bled heavily and every move made him weaker. The Histanatarns had lost many but still they came. There were just too many to overcome. A blinding headache was setting in too, just to make things worse, it hammered so hard in his head his white eye began to ache. He didn’t pray much but the gravity of the situation was sinking in and he found himself saying a silent prayer to Woetala, and to Rasia, as his blade flickered ceaselessly in front of him.

  He glimpsed Bokaard in the distance, fighting with his heavy Atalanph axe. The big man crushed his enemy with his weapon more than he sliced them, taking two out in just one swoop, but he too was struggling against a smaller, quicker, and more numerous foe. Sweat and blood poured down his face but there was still fire in his eyes and he lacked or hid any serious injury.

  They had by now drifted far out into the open ocean and land was nowhere to be seen, even with his white eye. It was better than being swept back onto those black rocks, Marakon thought, thanking the goddess for small mercies. But with the open water came rougher seas and the sunny clear skies were now becoming overcast with heavy rain clouds. The ships had also become separated, though all remained within sight.

  Broken sails splattered in blood and rigging dangled overhead and on the deck making fighting increasingly harder and tiresome, but still the Histanatarns did not give up. Marakon almost admired their stamina, they too would fight and die as the Feylint Halanoi would. The perfect making for a long bitter and bloody battle, Marakon thought wryly. The ships and all they contained were a great prize for them, as were the skulls and bones of their enemies that they used to decorate their temples and give as offerings to their war god.

  Each thrust and parry with his sword became harder and harder as his aching muscles turned to lead. The pounding in his head grew worse. The tiredness moved him past caring if he lived or died. A dangerous place to be. All he could focus on was hack and slash and kill and move on - which was why, at first, he did not notice the black shadows that passed overhead. Later he wondered if he had assumed them to be seagulls scavenging off the dead. Not that it mattered; it was too late by then, too late by far.

  When he finally did glance up he was chilled to the marrow and his heart lurched in his chest. His legs trembled so much he fell back against a mast and he could not seem to breathe. They were not clouds or seagulls but gigantic black dragons high in the sky and what he felt in his trembling soul was dragon fear. He watched paralysed in fear as the dragons swooped lower and his headache reached its peak. He sagged against the thick mast as they all, Histanatarns and Feylint Halanoi alike, succumbed to dragon fear, ceasing their fighting as they were frozen to the decks.

  So, the Histanatarns knew fear too, Marakon thought vacantly as his heart hammered in his chest.

  The black Dread Dragons circled above them, their huge wings longer than the length of an Atalanph ship. Atop each beast sat a Dromoorai rider. They were bigger than any Maiorian dragon or Dragon Lord, and ugly too. Marakon could see clearly their long craggy heads, horns striking up along the snout and becoming great black spikes on the forehead.

  Out of the clouds seven more Dromoorai dropped. Unlike other Maphraxies the Dromoorai were not hunched and deformed but upright, they did not act crazed but were controlled and cunning. Their faces were hidden forever within thick three-pointed helmets and their eyes, like their steeds, burned red like lava, alight with something that was not life. It was said that they were created in the image of Baelthrom himself but few could verify this for few had ever seen Baelthrom and lived.

  Eight Dread Dragons now circled overhead. Marakon had never been this close to them before, their bone-raking cries sent him to his knees and to his chagrin his bladder emptied itself. The clatter of armour told him he was not alone in his terror. He groaned, closing his eyes and stuffing his ears to be rid of the terrible sound but it seemed to echo within him. Their screeches cut through his headache, a shard of intense pain as if meant only for him. He clutched his head as if to stop it from splitting apart.

  There was screaming coming from all around him and despite the agony his eyes were forced open. He did not understand what he saw. All of the Histanatarns had also fallen to the floor but were writhing and howling in pain whilst the Feylint Halanoi were just frozen in dragon fear. There came a flash of red from each Dromoorai, Marakon was sure it came from the blood red amulets they all wore, and then the Histanatarns exploded into blood red flames. Some clawed their way off the decks and flopped like rag dolls into the water, but even submerged they burned.

  What is happening? Are we to be taken as slaves? But the pain and fear made it too difficult to reason it through.

  A Dread Dragon directly overhead was so close he could smell its stinking breath. It screamed and pain seared into his mind. He slumped on to the deck as consciousness slipped away. But all the while his white eye remained open, as if under a will of its own, and watched all.

  Chapter 21

  Maphraxie Spy

  HAMEKA tried to control the growing frustration as he stood within his cabin aboard the sickening swaying Maphraxian ship somewhere off the west coast of Frayon. He was not given over to emotions he had not allowed himself to have but the frustration forced itself upon him anyway, irritating him further.

  He smoothed his hair back firmly and inhaled sharply as he composed himself in front of the mirror. It wasn’t that he disagreed with Lord Baelthrom’s orders, it was more the fact that lately they had changed too frequently and with too short a notice. How could you maintain control of the army when you had to continually dictate new, and radically different, orders to your commanders?

  His initial orders were, “Start a permanent settlement and Sirin Derenax production plant on Haralan,” a day or so later it was leave Haralan and go south, so far south in fact that they may as well be going to another planet! Leaving to the Feylint Halanoi precious islands that they had not long held anyway.

  That was just part of his irritation on this windy, rainy, morning at sea. Most of his annoyance came from his Lord’s fixation with that dark haired girl causing a nuisance in the west. He had glimpsed a hazy image of a skinny pale wench, barely a woman, in the Key Stone. It was highly unlikely she was the cause of the trouble or the source of the new power, even less likely that she had in fact killed that big slug. Regardless, Keteth was a buffoon and a hindrance as it was and whoever had killed him had, in reality, done them all a favour.

  However, trying to convince Lord Baelthrom that she was no threat to the might of the Maphraxies, and the sooner they did away with her the better, had fallen on deaf ears. There was no convincing his Lord, and in fact it had been pointed out that it was actually Hameka’s limited human view of the world that was the problem. He conceded his view of the world was limited, especially when compared to his Lord, but human? The very analogy of himself to one made his blood seethe. He hated humans, hated himself for being one.

  But he would never disobey Baelthrom’s orders, knowing that his Lord saw and understood far more than he could possibly fathom. Something that always made him hold his tongue and dutifully accept his orders, even if he did not like them. So, following those orders, he had filled their fastest ships to brimming with all manner of Maphraxies, dark dwarves and necromancers and immediately embarked on a ludicrous mission to find her. Her, a needle in a haystack, their enemies’ haystack at that! Less a needle in a haystack,
more a thorn in his bloody side!

  If she was strong enough and driven enough to even try to destroy Keteth then she would never willingly join the Maphraxies, he was sure of it; they would have to destroy her. He rubbed his temples as the irritation grew. He had to be rid of her! If she was half as powerful as Baelthrom seemed to think, then extracting her elixir would be a joy, he might even take it himself.

  Perhaps if Baelthrom really focused his energy on the Frayonesse continent, like he was currently focusing on this stupid girl, it would be theirs by now. He wisely kept those thoughts to himself. There were some positives though, even though he hated the sea almost as much as he hated humans, with their best necromancer wizards aboard their fastest ships they had reached the southern Lost Sea in days and not weeks.

  The Key Stone hanging on his chest was still warm from a recent communion with Baelthrom, a short communion detailing their whereabouts. It glowed a dull reddish hue telling him that Baelthrom still watched silently through the Shadow Master. Hameka did not mind his Lord’s absent watching, it made him feel powerful and important.

  He spent most of the day in his cabin, despite the rocking of the ship making his stomach churn. His cabin was small but it was the largest onboard, even had a desk and chair built into it. Three drawers on one side of the desk contained his few belongings. He fidgeted uncomfortably, it was too hot this far south, cramped and sweaty and suffocating. He was used to the cold frigid wind and snow of Drax. He had hated the cold when he was there but now he could think of nothing better. At least he could think straight in the north, even if he was frozen. This damn heat dulled his brain.

  He looked down at the map he had been studying. He had been studying the bloody thing the entire cursed journey down here. He now knew the west coast of Frayon, and all its inlets and river outlets, as well as he knew the veins and creases on the back of his hand.

  The only places left unstudied of the Known World there were no maps for; the Kingdom of Fire to the south, the Kingdom of Ice to the north, The Ocean Kingdom to the east, and the Uncharted Lands to the west. It was popular belief that no people inhabited these places and that their environments were so harsh only a few hardy animals could survive. He believed little of what he heard, though, and planned to lead the Maphraxies to those undiscovered places, claim them himself, and set up base.

  But that was a long term plan, after Frayon had fallen, after he had become fully immortal. Yes, he had made a promise to himself that he would not become immortal until the last stronghold of the bloody Feylint Halanoi had fallen. Frayon must fall, and the quicker it is done the better!

  He opened the top drawer of his desk and carefully picked up the tiny dark blue vial. His fingers trembled with desire as he did so. He tilted the bottle, the fluid itself was extremely viscous and black but glowed with an aura of brilliant white light. A dark star captured in a bottle. Hameka laughed, even looking at the Elixir of Immortality was addictive. He didn’t enjoy the feeling of addiction, it meant he was not in control. He did enjoy not succumbing to the lure of the Elixir, it was akin to winning a battle, triumphing over the enemy, triumphing over his desire.

  How many souls had it taken to make just this amount, the most exquisite and expensive of all the Elixirs ever made? Twenty? Fifty? Some would say a hundred. One hundred human lives to make one worthy one.

  The first time he tasted just a drop of it was like tasting exquisite euphoria. It had taken sheer iron will, and all the will he had, to tear away the bottle from his lips and thrust it back to the excited fervent necromancer. At the time it had been the purest Elixir that had been made to date. The one he currently held was ten times purer and they said it could be purer still. He would not take it all until it was the purest it could be.

  Besides, he didn’t feel quite ready for everlasting life. He chuckled at the thought, who in their right mind is not ready for immortality? But, if he was honest, he was afraid of losing himself to it. And then losing the battles, and then his position as the right hand man of Baelthrom. The risk, whether real or imaginary, was simply too great. He needed a clear head, and the gift of immortality drove him on.

  Yes, he could wait a little longer, but every time he tasted it, it grew infinitely harder to pull that liquid away from his lips. And his body was still changing, slowly weakening with age, his joints stiffening, his hair thinning. Time was running out but he could wait a little longer. The necromancers said they had a new batch for the Maphraxies ready for testing. One that had fewer side effects; less deformity but the same size and strength, and a far greater intelligence not previously seen in former Maphraxies.

  That was exciting, he was growing tired of ordering the lumbering numb-skull Maphraxies around. He could do with a few dedicated and competent commanders at his side. The dark dwarves and necromancers had their own tasks, mostly involving necromancy and other such black magic arts, but they were not specifically battle-field focused as he was. And he was one of very few humans that had actively sought out the Immortal Lord and still lived. He needed more commanders.

  For the whole journey he had railed silently against the decision to travel so far south but when they had arrived at the Isles of Kammy, and he had seen their new bases, bases that were completely unknown to the Feylint Halanoi, he understood what Baelthrom had meant. What a great blow to the enemy it would be, to strike at their unprotected side so far from the front line.

  It had not been all good though. They had arrived in the Isles of Kammy amid reports of a dragon destroying their ships at sea with a young woman wielding powerful magic. Magic that seemed to come from the dark moon! This was the last thing they needed. Dragons awakening and fighting against the Maphraxies could not be allowed to happen. Word would soon reach the people of the death of Keteth, give them hope, and then they would be even harder to conquer.

  He looked down at the rough circular land of the Isle of Celene. The most westerly point in the Known World. To strike a place as sacred to them as the goddess’s own sacred isle... It would shake their confidence to the core, could be the turning point in the war. He wondered why he had not thought of it before; the cursed goddess’s isle should have been the first place to fall to Baelthrom.

  So now it was to Celene they were headed, seeking a girl that had eluded them in the clutches of this dragon that the Maphraxies had failed to capture or kill. Did he have to do everything himself to make sure they succeeded? They would strike hard and fast and without remorse. Any hope sparked by the death of Keteth would be swiftly snuffed out! They would find the girl and bring her to Baelthrom and the matter would be over quickly so he could get on with the war. The thought of finally being rid of her served to lessen his irritation somewhat.

  He unstoppered the bottle of fine Davonian port beside his maps and carefully topped up his glass, swaying with the ship as he did so. He sipped the port and focused upon the nautical map of Celene and her surrounding waters. They would surround the small island in a circle and approach it on smaller boats before first light planning to land at dawn. The necromancer wizards would create a dense fog to hide their approach, just like they had in Drax.

  And what a victory that was seeing the mighty Dragon Kingdom fall!

  Then they would kill the unsuspecting inhabitants, just like Drax, sparing only those deemed best for Elixir extraction. It would be too late for any to escape such a surprise attack and too soon for soldiers of any note to aid the defence. They would move so quickly that they would not have time to even arm themselves!

  The Key Stone upon his chest flashed briefly and then was dull.

  Hameka whipped up straight. Dromoorai in battle? If a Dromoorai engaged in battle the Key Stone would flare like it had now, alerting him to the fact. But the ship still continued its monotonous swaying and there was no sound of the guttural barking orders of the Maphraxies. He took a hold of the amulet and stared into it.

  ‘Show me,’ he breathed and the bloodstone obeyed.

  A clear image form
ed. He was looking through the Shadow Stone of an amulet hanging about the Dromoorai’s neck. He could see the long snaking neck of the Dread Dragon, black scales gleaming a metallic greenish tinge, thick onyx horns covering a huge head that moved up and down with the slow steady beat of its massive wings. A blue sky half covered with white clouds filled the rest of his vision.

  The huge gauntletted fist of the Dromoorai rider pulled on the clanking chains that served as reins and the dragon turned its head to the left and its neck and body followed. The world tilted and spun. Hameka closed his eyes from the sudden vertigo of the movement.

  Feeling steadier he blinked. Now he looked down at a vast expanse of ocean and directly below the dragon were five ships engaged in a battle against many much smaller boats. The five ships were not Maphraxian. They were all heavily armed with shining harpoons sticking out the gunwales. Battle ships.

  ‘Name your position,’ Hameka ordered into the Key Stone. A deep airy sound returned, not unlike Baelthrom’s own voice, only lacking the timbre. It was like a person trying to speak through long dead vocal chords. An analogy, Hameka realised, that was probably close to the truth.

  ‘Southwest of Drax, northeast of the Lost Sea,’ the Dromoorai replied without embellishments.

  ‘Go lower,’ Hamela commanded, ‘stay out of range.’

  The Dromoorai obediently angled the Dread Dragon lower.

  ‘The Feylint Halanoi,’ Hameka said with a sneer as he saw the Atalanphian ships and the familiar annoying Feylint Halanoi tabard of a golden shield on a red background, ‘and what a pity the Histanatarn sea dogs appear to be too numerous. An embarrassing loss if ever I saw one,’ Hameka sneered.

  The Histanatarns were usually no match for the Feylint Halanoi. But when outnumbered by three or four to one, as they seemed to be from Hameka’s aerial vision, the odds were against the Halanoi. Hameka felt about the Histanatarns as he did about harpies, disgusting creatures. Yet watching them destroy his favourite enemy was good entertainment as far as he was concerned. Nothing was more fun than watching the destruction of humans. Let them destroy each other, it means one less battle for us.