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

by A. Evermore

  ‘Do you have a name for your people?’ Marakon asked, between mouthfuls.

  ‘We call ourselves the Gurlanka,’ Shufen said scrambling agilely over the huge root of an enormous tree. ‘It means “People of the Forest by the Sea”.’

  ‘It means all of that?’ Marakon said in surprise. They laughed.

  ‘The name is how the Elders say it,’ Jarlain said smiling at him, the sun dappled through the trees onto her face.

  She looked very pretty just then and he found himself staring at her a bit too long. He dropped his gaze quickly, trying to hide his mistake. It was true he found her attractive, she looked different to women he had seen before, exotic, dark and mysterious. But just then too he sorely missed Rasia. He scolded himself internally for acting like some fool boy. If Jarlain had noticed his staring, she didn’t show it and carried on speaking.

  ‘They talk an ancient tongue that the Hidden Ones speak. Only an Elder is able to learn it.’

  ‘Everyone else is too busy,’ Shufen snorted.

  ‘Are the Hidden Ones like the goddess?’ Marakon asked.

  ‘No, the goddess of the forest is still the same. We call her Woela,’ Jarlain said as they packed up their things.

  Marakon smiled. ‘We call her Woetala. But many where I come from now wonder if she still exists, if she ever even existed at all. I think the darkness that spreads across our world destroys faith and belief.’

  Jarlain gave a surprised look and then smiled sadly. ‘They say the darkness spreads over all Maioria, blocking out the light of our creator. That it came from the black scar in the night sky and it will consume all.’

  Marakon nodded and looked down at his makeshift walking stick. ‘Then you know of what I speak. But still we cannot give in. Still we have to fight. What else can we do? Will the Hidden Ones help?’

  Jarlain shook her head. ‘They do not get involved in human affairs.’

  Typical, Marakon thought, but said nothing.

  ‘They have their own problems. The Incubi and Succubi are their adversaries and opposites. Demons that take the life and form of humans. They were once Hidden Ones, but have fallen.’

  ‘Greater Demons,’ Marakon murmured as memory stirred.

  ‘Demons that came from beyond the Murk,’ Jarlain nodded. ‘They say they broke through into the Murk and then into Maioria during the Demon Wars millennia ago. The Hidden Ones do what they can to protect us from them, that is the only way they get involved with humans.’

  Marakon raised his eyebrows and nodded. At least they did something to help, then.

  They walked at a steady pace for several hours with little or no change in the scenery around them. Marakon wondered how they knew the way and how in the world they would be able to retrace their steps home. You could not see the sun through the trees nor see anything but a constant wall of green.

  After another hour the light slanted through the leaves at more of an angle and was slowly turning golden red. At least that was some indication of what time of day it was. The scenery began to change a little and every now and then they passed large grey boulders, twice the height of a man and five times as wide. There were markings on those rocks and on closer inspection Marakon could just make out strange carvings of faces or maybe just one face, it was not clear enough to tell.

  ‘What are they?’ he asked but everyone just shrugged. Jarlain shifted uncomfortably and nervously glanced around.

  ‘They were already old when we, the Gurlanka, came here, but no one knows who brought them or where they have gone. We think the Drowning Wastes may be something to do with them,’ was all Tarn said.

  The light turned red and then began to darken as they walked. Marakon’s whole body ached but the other’s seemed not to tire at all.

  ‘Is it sore?’ Jarlain asked.

  ‘Yes, but it heals. Thanks to you,’ he smiled, noticing how her cheek curved smoothly in the evening light. She smiled back and carried on walking. He did miss Rasia, that was obvious. Would he ever see her again? Well that was another matter and he didn’t want to think about it. It was less painful to think about Jarlain.

  Night fell quickly but the moons of Doon and Woetala were bright and enough silver and orange light fell through the canopy to see fairly well. There came another light source, yellowish green specs of light that danced all around them.

  ‘Fairies?’ Marakon asked, wide-eyed. He had not seen fairies since he had been a child in Munland and had almost forgotten they existed. Jarlain laughed at him again. He pouted indignation.

  ‘Fireflies, silly,’ she jested. ‘Just another kind of your hated insects.’

  ‘Well, these at least have some use,’ he replied. She smiled.

  Shufen slowed his lead. ‘We are close to the Drowning Wastes,’ he said quietly, as if afraid someone, or something, would hear.

  ‘Why is it called that?’ Marakon whispered, suddenly wishing he’d asked earlier. He might not have come then.

  ‘Because those that enter drown in their own misery and are lost forever. The land is cursed, dead, a wasteland of lost hope. You will feel it the closer we get. We do not know exactly what happens as no one has ever come out alive to tell us. I have been closest to this place than anyone in the village, though it is not a thing I am proud of and it happened by accident. I nearly went mad.

  ‘The first feeling is sadness; you see sadness everywhere, in the rocks, in the trees, even in the animals. All your sad memories float before you. If you go closer it gets worse, much worse. The sadness becomes terror and visions from past lives or maybe other peoples’ lives haunt you; terrible memories of violence and death, plague and famine... The sense of futility and despair consumes you,’ Shufen shuddered looking into the middle distance, his face white in the darkness.

  ‘Like the Shadowlands,’ Marakon mused.

  Shufen frowned and then nodded, ‘Only you don’t have to die to go into the Drowning Wastes. I was hunting a stupid deer. I nearly had it when it jumped away and I fell. I tumbled down forever into that terrible place,’ he swallowed. ‘It was all I could do to block my ears and shut my eyes from the sound and sight of death. I wandered for three days in the wilderness trying to find the path out. I was lucky, any further in and… It’s a place where all reason for living is taken from you.’

  ‘Why are we going there then? Are you that keen to be rid of me?’ Marakon asked even as the memory of an hourglass flashed through his mind.

  ‘No, we go because the Elders have told us to,’ Shufen said simply, ‘we are to take you as close to that place as we can and let you go your own way. In there you will find whatever it is you seek. That is all they have told us. We risk much even coming this far.’

  ‘How will I know which way to go? How will I survive?’ Marakon asked. He felt like a child, lost and bewildered, caught up in things that were far beyond his understanding. But he knew he could do nothing except keep moving forwards. If he stopped the faces of his friends and comrades who had died so recently would catch up with him. Shufen looked at him and then turned away, his face expressionless.

  ‘You will know what you have to do, the Elders have said. They, and the Hidden Ones they speak to, are never wrong,’ Jarlain said beside him. ‘Like I told you before, I see danger and great changes coming. There is no turning back.’

  ‘We all sense it now,’ the eldest Gurlanka echoed. He had been silent until now. The youngest nodded.

  Marakon had to accept that that was the only answer he was going to receive. He tried to empty his head of the questions that burned inside. Whether that strange old boatman and what he had said had been real or not he knew the answers lay somewhere in that awful place, the Drowning Wastes, it had to. Besides, it couldn’t be worse than fighting Maphraxies or being captured and becoming one of them. The pang of urgency spurred him on and he could not ignore it any more than he could ignore needing the toilet.

  ‘We will walk another half an hour from here,’ Shufen said sombrely and they all followed
him in a line.

  As they made their way through the dark and increasingly silent wood Marakon offered a prayer to the goddess of the forest; mainly for strength and ultimately to find a way out of this cursed jungle and back home to Rasia. But try as he might he couldn’t seem to find the peace he needed. His white eye was hot and sweaty under the patch. He went to lift it but let his hand drop back down. He didn’t want Jarlain to see the things she saw before, whatever they had been.

  No bird sang or animal rustled in the undergrowth. He hadn’t seen a monkey for several hours. Small tendrils of mist formed again as moisture rose from the warm and pungent jungle floor into the cooler night air. The big boulders were more numerous now and stood like ominous ghostly figures in the moonlight.

  How long would it take to reach this cursed place? Marakon thought impatiently, the pressing sense of urgency was annoying him now, it came from within him but was not his own. It seemed as if it was placed there. His mind drifted wearily as he stumbled on behind Shufen.

  It was inevitable in the boring trudge that his thoughts soon turned to that last battle against the Histanatarns. He remembered it clearly now. The strange spinning wheels powering the tiny Histanatarn vessels, the explosion of the harpoons and the violent rock of the ship in the aftermath, the slippery blood covering the decks. The lifeless face of the dwarf woman as she fell dead into the sea below, another to join the thousands in their watery grave. Bokaard, big and powerful, hacking down the enemy. Then the Dread Dragons came.

  Did any of them survive? How could they. But hadn’t he survived? He only had hope that they did. Why did the Dragons not kill me? Why does nothing make sense!? The frustration annoyed him and his mood darkened. What about the youngest ones? They could only have been sixteen, maybe even fifteen. It was supposed to be a straightforward mission: sight the enemy. It had had the worst outcome possible and yet he had been so sure of success and of victory. It was all his fault; he’d given the order to go west. He deserved everything he got. He didn’t deserve to imagine ever finding his way home, of ever seeing Rasia and his sons again.

  He should have factored in the Histanatarn threat, but they were never supposed to be that far west. Not supposed to… How could he, one of the most experienced commanders of the Feylint Halanoi, ever rely on supposes? The enemy could be anywhere at any time.

  He walked deep in dark thoughts, randomly swishing his stick to slice the leaves of bushes and vines away. Great Mother, pray that Bokaard made it out alive. He was a strong man, a seasoned fighter, and more than that he was a friend. He forced the lump in his throat back down. Do and die, that’s what they did, that’s all they were supposed to do.

  He rubbed his eye patch. So many he’d known had fallen in so many battles, it was hard to find friends that lasted long enough. Pointless sodding futile war. The enemy was too strong despite the success of the Feylint Halanoi in bringing together all able peoples from across Free Maioria. They were not enough; it was not enough, damn it! It would never be enough. He swiped viciously at a leaf above him and watched the torn part fall to the floor oozing sap from the tear.

  Ever since his first memories, when the Maphraxies came, there had been no peace in this life. Had there ever been peace before the Maphraxies? The elves spoke of constant war between the people even then. And even if there was peace there was always death. Even dragons died eventually. Did happiness and abundance come with peace or was fighting what all things lived for? Did he even want peace? Maybe he just liked fighting... Maybe I am nothing without war.

  His mood sank further. Was this the edge of the Drowning Wastes? He hacked another leaf off but his swipe was weak, driven by futility, and the leaf remained bruised on the bush. He had seen hundreds of men and women, soldiers all of them, die on the battlefield, meaninglessly. Who wanted that? Who wanted to feel like so much worthless grass to be scythed down, their bright light extinguished forever by the immortal Maphraxies? They died for nothing. Nothing! Where was the goddess for those that died? Do and die and that is it.

  Marakon didn’t know if he was sad or furious. Abruptly he realised they had stopped. How long had he been wandering in a dark haze? Jarlain was leant against one of the trees away from the group, her shoulders slumped and her back to them. The others sat wearily on the dark and damp forest floor. No one looked at each other.

  Only Shufen stood up straight and alert, watching the trees. The air was heavy with the weight of something more than humidity and it was no longer hot but positively cold. There was an odd light about them, as if it were dawn or dusk, and though the moons and stars were gone it was still a long way to dawn. Mist drifted in ghostly ribbons amongst the trees. He shivered, feeling the weight of ages press upon his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll take you a little further,’ Shufen said in a heavy whisper, ‘but the others will wait here, I’ll not risk it.’

  ‘Risk what?’ Marakon asked but Shufen stepped away. He was about to follow but Jarlain laid a hand on his arm making him jump. She had moved so silently he had not heard her.

  ‘Wait,’ she said. She looked pale and tired and seemed to be holding back, there was fear in her eyes. ‘Take this,’ she said passing a small leather pouch to Marakon. Curiously he took it and emptied the contents onto his hand. A smooth creamy opaque pebble fell out, about a third the size of his hand. He turned it over quizzically. On one side a bear was intricately carved and on the other a sun. It was perfectly smooth and cool to the touch.

  ‘It is just a gift. It’s an old symbol of our people, nothing more. The symbol of hope is the sun that brings the light; the symbol of the bear is the symbol of strength and freedom, which must always be fought for, at least in this world. Funny isn’t it that there are no bears here, yet we all remember them clearly.’

  Marakon wondered at that, perhaps it was a memory of their lost land Unafay.

  ‘It may help you, in there... but it is only a relic to bring luck, and a way for you to remember me, we the Gurlanka, when the darkness covers your mind, nothing more. You will need something to remember and this stone holds the encryption of us. In truth there is nothing that can truly help you, only yourself,’ she gave a small smile though it never reached her eyes. He put a hand on hers.

  ‘I will return, I promise you,’ he spoke from the heart and his words felt true but he was unsure if he was trying to reassure her or himself. He put the stone back in its pouch and followed Shufen into the mist. He could not bring himself to look back.

  Chapter 34

  Drowning Wastes

  WITH every step his feet grew heavier and the air thicker and harder to breathe, as if they walked and breathed in soup. The feeling of sorrow grew within like a knot in the pit of his stomach. He looked at Shufen wondering if he felt it too, the man’s face was set and his chin firm, he was controlling it through sheer will. Marakon decided to do the same.

  But his thoughts soon flickered back to the past no matter how hard he tried to control them. Thoughts that became increasingly vivid until they seemed so real he even heard past conversations as if they were happening now. A shout right beside him made him jump and whirl around but there was nothing there, the forest was empty, except for Shufen and the trees. Shufen was right, even the trees looked sad, grey and wilting, as if they had borne witness to awful things.

  ‘This place is always dusk, never reaching the night, never releasing the light to the darkness, as if never releasing the living to their peaceful rest,’ Shufen said quietly. ‘Another kind of Shadowlands, yet the living can walk here.’ They moved on in silence, Shufen’s pale taut face told Marakon he was fighting his own inner battles too, but it did not comfort him.

  After a while the forest began to open up and an overgrown path was faintly visible. Whoever made that path was long gone and yet the forest was reluctant to reclaim it, Marakon noticed. A grey figure loomed between the bushes and he jumped, his hand grabbing his sword, but the grey thing did not move and he realised it was a statue. He gawped at it,
a statue? In the middle of a jungle when it should be in some city of the Old World. Beyond it he saw another and then the grey tip of another lurking up through the mist. Marakon ran over to them, drawn to each of them in turn despite the heavy feeling of trespassing deep in his gut.

  The statues were only slightly taller than he with expertly detailed, finely chiselled faces. A strange recognition stirred within him, so lifelike were their expressions. The first was a man with a long moustache hanging below his chin. He wore a short conical helmet, armour and tabard with an emblem Marakon did not recognise at first and yet memory stirred, a star… The statue had both hands on the pommel of his sword, the tip resting on the ground before him. His face was drawn in sorrow and his eyes were shut as if he did not want to see what was happening.

  ‘Who is this?’ Marakon hissed, staring at the statue obsessively. But Shufen was out of earshot.

  Who was it supposed to be? He desperately wanted to know, needed to know, but there was no description on the base or anywhere. Almost every statue in the cities at home spoke of glory and victory and grand status, but this spoke of sorrow and loss, deprecation. Marakon felt sick. He moved on to the next though his eyes kept going back to the first.

  The next statue was of boy, not quite a man, unarmed and prone upon the ground, dressed in little more than a loincloth. Arm raised above his head he was trying to shield himself from whatever it was that was attacking him. Memory stirred, unarmed and innocent. His mouth was open in a silent scream that would last forever; a scream that echoed around Marakon’s mind.

  Marakon pulled himself away and came to the next. A man, dressed once more in armour like the first, but laying on his belly. He was half propped up using his sword in his left hand as he reached with a clawed hand towards something he would never touch. His face contorted in a grimace of pain and loss. What was he reaching for? The desire to know was a fierce unquenchable fire in Marakon’s belly.