Destiny's Rift (Broken Well Trilogy) (18 page)

‘Hold!’ he said, and the other Mireforms came to a halt. He reached to his side, where the end of the rolled-up map protruded, and pulled it out of himself. Shaking it free of mud, he examined it briefly, then turned to consider the silhouettes of the great mountains in the distance.

‘That way,’ he said, pointing with a knife-like claw.

The Mireforms took off again.

Duskwood

Duskwood

Duskwood

Lalenda walked through skeletal trees, bare and dead for a long time now. There wasn’t even leaf litter on the hard, barren ground. Broken trunks lay askew at various angles, some piled atop others to create brittle hills of collapsed wood. Others stood densely, grasping one another with spidery, claw-like branches. Dry lichen coated many surfaces, sending up musty grey clouds when disturbed. Grey upon grey upon grey.

She heard a twig snap, and turned. From amongst branches stared a pair of grey eyes, dry themselves, dry as the wretched face they inhabited.

Grimra swirled protectively in front of her, hissing.

She awoke.

‘Be all right, flutterbug?’ came Grimra’s voice, ghosting over the bed towards her. ‘Startling in her sleep she be?’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Dreaming?’

‘Yes. You were there too.’

‘Aha. Explains why Lalenda be frightened then. Grimra be very, very scary, ho ho!’

Lalenda smiled at him – or at least, where she thought he might be.

It had been some time since any prophecy had come to her. She’d taken to wondering if her usefulness in that regard had ended. Perhaps the major prophecy she’d been born to have had been predicting for Battu where and when the blue-haired boy would be born. If that were the case, she would not have minded. Prophecy was not controllable and hadn’t exactly made her life happy. Except that without it, she wouldn’t have Losara.

Perhaps she was lucky to be a prophet after all.

‘Duskwood,’ she murmured.

‘What’s this?’ said Grimra. ‘Why speak this name?’

‘I had a vision of us in Duskwood.’

Grimra gave a low growl. ‘Nothing good be there. No rabbits to chase, no birds to snaffle. Only resting for those without rest.’

Lalenda swung her legs out of bed. Through an opening high in Losara’s chambers she could see the light of early morning. She reached for the water jug and splashed her face, careless of the drops she got on the bedding.

For all its proximity to the castle, she did not know much about Duskwood. It ran out from the mountain on which Skygrip was shaped, from the bottom of the sheer cliff on the southwards side. It was rumoured to be a place for the undead, and that
thing
in her vision had most certainly been undead. But Losara had told her that Battu had been charged by the Dark Gods to clean the land of such creatures, sending their souls back to the Great Well. Battu had done a half-hearted job, and left spirit creatures called the Trapped intact along the border. Was it possible he had been lax with others as well? With Battu, anything was possible.

Still, what she knew of the place did not answer the important question – why would
she
go there?

Maybe because a prophecy said she would.

That, in her experience, was not the way prophecy worked. Visions showed things that would come to pass; they did not
cause
things to come to pass. If no strange reason arose to make her go to such a place, her prophecy would be proven false. If she did go, however, the prophecy would be true, but it would also be the cause of itself coming true. A circle, a paradox, or maybe evidence that the forces of fate were intervening in the natural flow of events?

Lalenda was surprised to discover that she actually found the idea of visiting the wood appealing. Her recent experience of life outside the castle made the walls seem even more claustrophobic than before, made her dissatisfied with reading books day in and out, waiting for Losara to return. Was it so implausible that, given the taste she had recently developed for exploration, she would wake up one morning wanting to see something new, and remember there was a place just behind the castle that she had never seen and knew little about? Was it so improbable that her confinement would drive her to take a short outing just to pass the time?

Idly, she picked up a book from her stack, one she had not delved into yet, and flipped it open.
Last Home of the Ebons
read the title. The story detailed the demise of the Ebon Elves who, like the Sprites, had not long survived the breaking of the Great Well. Unlike the Sprites, however, there were no traces of Ebons left. They had never interbred with other races, considering them unclean, and so had died out completely. It was with some surprise that she realised the book was about how the last Ebons had made their home in Duskwood, back when the trees were still alive.

It had been the top book in the pile.
Perhaps
, she thought,
if not for the prophecy, I would have awoken and started reading, as I often do on these lazy mornings
. Perhaps her curiosity would have been piqued, inspiring her to go and poke around the nearby place that she had just visited in her mind’s eye.

Should she go?

‘Breakfast time?’ asked Grimra hopefully.

‘Certainly,’ said Lalenda. It would give her a chance to mull things over.

The castle was emptier than usual, not only because of the purging, but also because Tyrellan and Roma had taken with them most of the guards and sundry others. As she walked the quiet corridors to the kitchens accompanied by Grimra, Lalenda wondered whom she could ask for permission to leave the castle . . . and realised that she didn’t really answer to anyone any more. A joy came upon her like tiny stars exploding in her heart.

She decided to go. If Losara could take off on a whim to creep around Kainordas, why should she be restricted by mere force of habit?

She arrived at the castle kitchens, where Greys used to putting out food for an entire castle were, maybe for the first time in their lives, taking their ease on the job, sitting around chatting in front of the iceplace. Saray noticed her enter and nodded to her as he rose. She took her usual place at a bench while he fixed her a breakfast of soft bread and cheese, and a haunch of meat for Grimra.

‘There we go, mistress,’ he said, sliding a plate in front of her. He put down the meat more gingerly.

‘Thank you,’ she replied, as Grimra began to worry noisily at his food.

Was it significant, then, this prophecy? Had it come to her for a reason? Hard to say, for sometimes she dreamed things of little consequence. Not every prophecy had to be ground-shaking. Still, she wondered about it, for it seemed odd that fate would pre-emptively reinforce a notion that she may have had anyway.

Well
, she thought, chewing absently,
I’ll go. What does it matter where the idea came from?

‘Grimra?’

The ghost somehow managed to sound as though he had his insubstantial mouth full. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m taking a little trip down to Duskwood.’

Grimra moaned, and a strip of half-eaten meat fell to the floor. ‘Why, flutterbug?’

‘Because,’ she said, and paused for a moment, ‘I’m bored.’

Grimra sighed. ‘You be dreaming of a place, now you wants to go there.’

‘Something like that.’

He swirled around her. ‘Not a nice place. Not safe.’

‘But you will come?’

‘Grimra promises to protect flutterbug,’ the ghost said resignedly.

•

One way to reach the wood was to leave via the front door and circle around to the back of the castle . . . another was to go up to the aviary and simply drop down, a fall of over a league. This seemed by far the more exciting route, and so it was that Lalenda found herself standing at the edge of the gaping cavern mouth high in the castle.

Looking down into the great shadow in the lee of Skygrip where the reaches of Duskwood lay, the reality of what she was about to do began to sink in. She felt ill-prepared, for she had nothing with her save a little bread, in case they were gone a while, but what else did she need? She had no use for weapons, for she was better with her retractable claws than with any sword or dagger – and besides, Grimra was with her.

‘Flutterbug is sure she wants to do this?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Lalenda, and stepped off the edge.

She spread her wings to slow her fall, but found the winds worryingly strong. Feeling herself being pulled about, she changed her mind and dived, an exhilarating freefall, cutting through the currents breaking against the castle like a stone sinking in a choppy sea. Usually there would be Graka patrols circling, but on this occasion she did not see any. How bare had Tyrellan stripped the land of its defences?

The wind rushed in her ears and, despite his misgivings about their destination, Grimra hooted as he followed her downwards. Floors of the castle whipped by in a blur, and Lalenda lifted her wings a little to guide herself out over the wood. As they passed the base the wind eased, and she was able to take more control of her plummet. Soon she could make out individual trees beneath her, and started searching for a good place to land. She spied a path zigzagging haphazardly and took aim at it. Landing more heavily that she’d intended, she sent up a cloud of dust that stung her eyes and made her sneeze.

Around her the wood was as she remembered from her vision – dry, dusty and dead. From somewhere off the path, she heard movement. That thing she had seen? Or something else?

‘See?’ said Grimra. ‘Me be telling you it ain’t pretty.’

There came a low, bone-tingling moan. From out of the trees swooped a spectral creature with trailing edges, like a torn cloak wrapped round the torso of a man, so faded that it was hard to make out the details beyond its void-like mouth stretched into an ‘O’. It reached for Lalenda with ghostly fingers, and sharp tips shot out of her own, though the creature had no flesh for her to slash. Grimra gusted in front of her, and the thing was caught up in a whirlwind of flashing claws and gnashing fangs. It was shredded to pieces under the onslaught, wisps of it floating away until all was gone.

Slowly Lalenda’s claws retracted. ‘What was that?’ she whispered, her heart beating furiously.

‘Wraith,’ said Grimra. ‘Freeze you with its touch if it can, thinks it be sating its hunger that way. Mage once, body with magic, now magic without body.’

‘And is it . . . gone?’

‘Yes. Cannot be harmed by mortal weapon, but Grimra be no mortal.’

Not for the first time Lalenda wondered what Grimra had been in his earthly life, but it was not a subject easily broached with him. In fact, the only time she’d tried, it had made him angry.

‘Grimra be staying on top of Lalenda,’ came his voice right in her ear. For a moment his fangs appeared again, this time before her eyes, as if he was on the verge of swallowing her and she was looking out from his maw. He had covered her like a protective cloud, and she felt better for it.

‘What next?’ he asked.

‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘Let us walk.’

Moving as one, they set off into Duskwood. Frequently there were other sounds from off the path, but only once or twice did Lalenda catch sight of distant figures in the shadows. They spotted another wraith coasting along just above the trees, but Grimra made noise at it. It trailed them for a while but eventually drifted out of sight.

Then the moment from her vision came upon her. A ghoul stirred in the dust as she passed by, and rose to its feet. It was a desiccated thing, its remaining skin like leather, traces of old rags embedded here and there. Its grey eyes were dull and blank, and while Grimra hissed at it, the ghoul simply stood watching.

She dared to take a step towards it. ‘Can you understand me?’

It turned its head slightly, but gave no further indication.

‘Asleep in the dust too long,’ said Grimra.

The ghoul made a low rattling sound in its throat and turned to shuffle off.

Again Lalenda wondered if there was a reason for her coming here? If there was, she hadn’t the slightest notion what it could be.

Ahead the path sloped downwards, and the trees on either side grew thicker, crisscrossing each other to form a dark tunnel. She paused on the cusp, hesitant to enter such a foreboding place.

‘Something is near,’ murmured Grimra.

Before she could ask what he meant, further down the path sticks exploded outwards under a flash of metal. Quickly Lalenda dived behind a rock, her wings tense, ready to fly. There came the sound of wood breaking, footfalls, a thudding . . . then silence. She thought, after a few moments, that she could hear a slight creaking.

‘Who is down there, Grimra?’ she whispered.

‘Big ’un,’ he said.

She edged her gaze around the rock.

Standing on the path, next to a gap it had apparently rent in the tunnel of trees, was a hulking figure. It was bent over, leaning heavily on a huge square-ended sword. It wore heavy armour that may once have been lustrous but was now dull and rusted. A spiked helm on its head tipped to the side, almost precarious. From under the armour trailed rotten rags, forming a kind of skirt around its thick legs, which were like tree trunks of twisted tendons. It shifted its weight on the sword, swung its head around to face her with eye sockets hollow and deep. Lalenda gasped and drew back behind the stone.

‘Trespasser,’ came its sepulchral voice.

‘Grimra?’ she whispered.

‘I be here,’ came the ghost’s voice. ‘But . . . me cannot be fighting that one, flutterbug. Should be leaving.’

She summoned her courage. The thing, male by the sound of it, did not seem like a fast mover. Slowly she rose out of hiding to face him. He simply stood regarding her.

‘Who are you,’ she said, trying to sound confident, ‘to call me trespasser?’

The thing stirred, his bones creaking. ‘Who are you, to ask?’

‘I hail from Skygrip,’ she said. ‘Close to the Shadowdreamer I am, and free to go wherever I choose. Nowhere, in the entirety of Fenvarrow, am I trespasser.’

The enormous ghoul tilted his head towards the castle, high in the distance behind her, tattered braids swinging from underneath his helm.

‘Times change,’ he muttered, seemingly to himself. Then, more loudly, ‘But nothing changes down here. I admire your courage, pixie, but you would be wise to leave this place. The living are not welcome here.’

‘Who are you?’ Lalenda repeated.

The undead grasped his sword with both hands in an effort to hoist himself up tall. He could not seem to unbend his back, however, and there was a distinct cracking as he tried. Eventually he gave up and slumped back to his bent posture.