Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (24 page)

•

Iassia had never been so afraid. Death was not usually something that concerned him, a clever weaver being practically immortal, yet now he faced a fate worse than death.

He had come across a lost mind once. A ghost thing it had been, mad and unpredictable, unseen and unheard by most. He had listened to it for a while and it made no sense to him, though it was obviously in great distress. He’d had some sport with it when it had weakly tried to possess his body. If this Bel died, the pathetic torment that had once amused him would become his own living nightmare.

During the fighting he had been helping Bel as best he could. At one point he had whispered in the mind of a bow that a hugger falling towards Bel wanted to kill her. Consequently she had shot at it instead of the hugger that
was
above her, to her detriment. He’d sent thoughts to the huggers too, helping them perceive other soldiers as bigger threats than Bel. These efforts were tiring, but the huggers were simple-minded creatures, easier to influence than intelligent beings.

Now, however, Bel was surrounded, and against such numbers Iassia’s influence meant little. Bel was an impressive warrior, cutting bodies from the air and cracking crawling backs under powerful feet, but Iassia knew there were simply too many. In a panic, the weaver cast around for the mind of Munpo, and found him not far off. The man was standing with the remaining troop, their progress halted at a wall of snapping mouths. Frantically Iassia whispered to him that more soldiers were available at Bel’s location, that if they could break through they would gain the upper hand. The troop leader called out to those remaining to follow him, and they fought towards Bel.

•

Bel felt almost meditative. His movements had slipped into the pattern of the fight and he whirled like a leaf in a howling wind. Stepping this way and that, his sword was a streaking flash of light about him, carving huggers free of their lives.

‘Where are the others?’ shouted Munpo, as he and those with him fought their way into the knee-high ferns.

‘All dead!’ Bel shouted back.

Munpo had seven with him, including Keit and M’Meska. The Saurian hung back from the main fight, sending off arrow after arrow in search of shrieks.

‘How many?’ called Keit.

‘Must be over sixty adults!’ said Munpo. ‘Biggest nest I’ve ever seen!’

He jabbed a hugger through its shrieking mouth. Claws gouged at his side and he cursed, kneeing away another creature. Two of the remaining soldiers screamed and fell.

Bel found that he couldn’t remain in a single place, so couldn’t stay with his companions. This was a dance with death, and to survive it he had to lead. Time seemed to slow as he felled beast after beast, hacking paths through the brown-green mass. He heard a cry as another wave of monsters broke against his companions. A hugger dropped lightly from a tree onto Keit’s back and slashed his throat open with its claws. Bel bellowed, limbs and lives flying away from him, a dervish of destruction. A fierce joy burned in his breast. He could
see
the pattern of the fight,
knew
the steps he needed to tread. Sword
there,
fist
here,
boot
now,
elbow
there . . .
on and on until he did not know how much time passed, nor did he care.

Finally he swung at a hissing beast only to see it turn and scamper away. He leaped at another, but it was gone already, ferns quivering in its wake. His head snapped feverishly from side to side. The only huggers left were dead or in pieces. He rubbed the sweat from his eyes. The fight was over.

He tasted something foul and realised there was hugger blood in his mouth. It dribbled down his face and coated his clothes. As soon as he became aware of it, the smell was repulsive. He bent over and retched.

Someone groaned, and he staggered to where his comrades had made their stand. He found them all fallen, and sank to his knees with exhaustion. ‘Who is alive here?’ he asked. Keit did not speak, the hole in his neck being answer enough. Of the others, only Munpo opened his eyes. The old warrior tried to sit up, but grunted in pain and slumped back against the tree. Bel reached out to help him.

‘Don’t move me,’ said the troop leader.

For Bel, reality began to sink in. His friends were dead, his leader dying, and he had killed like one born to do so. He’d been consumed by the spirit of battle; meanwhile, his companions had been destroyed.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

‘Not your fault,’ managed Munpo thickly. ‘Blade Bel?’

‘Yes?’

‘Roll me some brittleleaf. In my top pocket.’

Bel nodded, and removed the pouch. With shaking fingers, he rolled brittleleaf into a paper. It was difficult because blood had made his fingers sticky.

‘I thought the hunting party was the nest guard,’ said Munpo, smiling bitterly.

‘I know, sir.’

‘No wonder the big fellow was with them, with this many mouths to feed. Must have been a big fire.’ He sighed deeply. ‘What did I tell you, Bel – never underestimate your opponent. What a fool I am, scattering my troop to pursue one hugger, like silly children chasing . . .’

But whatever Munpo’s children chased, Bel never knew.

He put the brittleleaf end in Munpo’s mouth.

From the trees above came a mewling and Bel forced his eyes upwards. Over the lip of one of the nests poked the hairy faces of hugger kittens, calling for their parents. He blinked slowly and reached for his crossbow. Through clouded eyes he slid a bolt into it, but the pounding in his head became overpowering and he lost track of his target. Dropping the crossbow, he pitched onto his side.

The only other thing he remembered that day was the forest floor moving beneath him, a scaly tail swinging back and forth across it.

Twenty-one / The Deep Dark

Twenty-one

The Deep Dark

The Deep Dark

The eel wound lazily through the murky water, pale grey with a long snout and eyes like copper coins. From his wide mouth jutted fangs at angles as crazy as the pillars of rock that protruded from the ocean floor. His skin was mottled and tough, scarred in many places. Sometimes old pains flared up and the eel ground his fangs in frustration, but he always continued to hunt. To stop and wait for wounds to heal was to invite starvation, or other predators. Lately the pain had become more general, and persistent. The eel had raised many broods, eaten many fish, fought many fights. When he saw baby eels swimming frantically along the ocean bed, he knew that he must have been small like that once. He did not eat the young eels, as he might once have, but instead used their fear to steer them into safer waters.

His senses were duller than they used to be, making it harder to search out prey. Stealing surreptitiously towards a school of fish, he burst from between rocks at speed, but at the pivotal moment his body failed him. Once the cramping stopped and he could swim again, he settled for an algal colony on a rock tower, swallowing it in hope of energy. Flesh was what he really needed.

He happened upon an eel nest amongst a cluster of rocks. Young eels darted into the safety of crevices as he approached, and a lone female flashed out. As the old eel drifted closer in the current, she turned her head from side to side, showing him her fangs. He veered wide, knowing she wouldn’t attack unless he came closer. He saw that she was young, but not healthy. Her stomach was sunken and she had a smattering of white discoloration. Where was her mate? Was he dead? She would have trouble providing for so many babies on her own.

As he drifted away, the female stretched out to full length and rippled her body towards him. The old eel wound to a stop, curious. Her mate must indeed be dead, for only brooding females without a partner would seek to entice another into the nest. Taking a replacement mate could be a risky business.

Salt.

The old eel was barely able to care for himself, let alone a brood of young. He sensed, though, that the mother was weak and desperate. If she didn’t hunt soon she would die, and then all her young would die too. Instinct turned him back towards her and he began to swim against the current. The effort seemed more taxing than it ever had before. The female regarded him warily as he approached.

The taste of salt on his lips. The cold breeze through his hair.

The eel realised he was floating off course and tried to correct himself – but his body wasn’t responding any more. He lost momentum, rolling in the current to drift towards the bottom. A cloud of sediment rose as he hit, a soft impact that he did not feel. He lay still as his heart slowed, his breaths coming further apart, until his gills stopped moving altogether.

This, then, was what he could offer. The young family would feed on him, drawing out the strength he could no longer use, and perhaps he would save them. It was better than waiting for the crabs, and the old eel only wished that he’d caught a fish and filled his belly with fresh meat for the young. As floating particles settled on his body, he died in peace. The mother drew closer, still wary.

Salt.

There was the taste of salt on his lips.

Losara licked his lips and found his tongue dry, and drifted back to consciousness. The salt crystals encrusted on his lids broke as his eyes opened. Above him the Cloud covered the sky more thickly than he’d ever seen it. The serenity that came from immersing himself in the shadows of the sea was replaced by the bite in his stomach. He empathised with the hunger of the old eel.

The boat rocked slightly as he rummaged through his supplies and drank what little remained of his water. He was close to the Boundary now, and before him the world opened like the mouth of an enormous cave, swallowing the ocean. He took hold of the oars once more and began to row. Weariness had become his waking world, having rowed for days with such limited rations. He had never done much physical work before and his slender frame had nothing to replace the energy he burned. He’d tried to use his powers to lure fish up to the boat, but discovered that something kept them away. He’d sniffed out an enchantment on the boat itself, old and subtle. He didn’t know whether he could have broken it or not, but instinct told him not to try. If fasting was supposed to be part of this journey, so be it. He found that he kept drifting from his body, losing himself in the boundless ocean, riding with the strange souls that dwelled there. The shadow was so strong here, in both the air and the depths beneath, surrounding him on all sides. It was hard to keep himself contained.

He wondered if he was failing this test. If so, when he reached the Boundary, he would drift over it without finding the Isle. There were many theories on the Boundary and what lay beyond it. Some thought new worlds; some thought oblivion; others thought it was the home of the gods themselves, where they kept their Wells. Kainordas also had a Boundary, far out in the Shallow Sea. From what Losara had heard, as one went further and further out, the light grew brighter until it was blinding. He shuddered at the thought of such a place. Only one thing was certain about the Boundaries: no one who went over them had ever returned.

He didn’t feel too unsettled, however. Somehow he didn’t believe that being abandoned at sea was his fate. The fields of wavelets on the choppy waters, the fresh chill tingling his ivory skin, all the lives moving beneath the surface . . . He lay back down, dangled a hand over each side of the boat, and out he spread, into the sea.

. . . a large sturgeon cruises along, a row of phosphorescent circles glowing on its cheeks to attract unwary prey. It swims around something that looks like a large rock, but as Losara drifts closer he sees the ‘rock’ is alive, a creature like a lump of flesh covered in tough brown skin. Vents open in its side and an acrid excretion plumes out. The sturgeon is repelled and darts away . . .

. . . a school of five jet-black shrimps fossick in a silt valley. Their small claws work the sediment, but one steps over a buried worm. The worm snaps up, catching the shrimp and crushing it in the loops of its body. The remaining shrimps flick off in alarm, their sad school that much smaller . . .

. . . a thing like a sea urchin on long, stilt-like legs moves haltingly across a sandy plain. A crab with claws twice as long as its body scuttles beneath a rock. A green and white jellyfish, with a body like two circles spinning in opposite directions. Other things . . . stranger things . . . older things . . .

. . . Tyrellan stands by a ditch with a reedy stream at the bottom. With him is a well-muscled goblin and Heron. Tyrellan nods, and the goblins go down the embankment to the stream. Tyrellan lies on his back, shoots Heron an intense look, then lowers his head under the water. The other goblin holds him down, muscles bulging as Tyrellan begins to thrash. Eventually Tyrellan lies still. The muscled goblin drags Tyrellan out of the water and up the embankment, laying him before Heron. Heron kneels, putting her fingers to Tyrellan’s wrist, then his neck. ‘Is he dead?’ asks the muscled goblin. ‘Yes,’ says Heron. She glances at the butterfly, which rests on the bridge of Tyrellan’s nose, its colourful wings open so their false eyes cover Tyrellan’s closed ones. Heron extends her hand and uses magic to draw the water from Tyrellan’s lungs, then shocks his heart into beating again. Tyrellan lurches up, coughing violently. For a moment he’s dazed, then he looks around blearily and sees the butterfly. He scrambles to his feet and stumbles away, but it follows him as closely as ever. ‘If death does not sever the connection,’ he roars, ‘will this vermin haunt my gravestone for all time?’ . . .

He awoke to the oars straining in their holdings. How long had he been gone? The boat was now surrounded by a darkness he could not penetrate, and somewhere inside it was the Isle. There was no point rowing any more. The gods would guide him now, or not. Hours passed and he drifted, half-asleep, half-super-aware of the environment around him. Sea life dwindled, save for a few ancient presences that he felt cautious about approaching. As he dreamed he found himself looking down at the boat, which held a different passenger.

It is a young Arabodedas woman, her hair running in snakish dreadlocks, baring sharpened teeth. Losara knows her to be Assidax, the Shadowdreamer preceding Raker. He can see her clearly somehow, even though she sails through the same darkness he does. He can see everything, he realises . . . not as if it is being lit up, but just because it is there. He wonders if this strange sense is a result of the dream, or if it will carry into his waking state.

Assidax changes, and now it is Raker who sails to the Isle. A young man, he nevertheless looks as drawn as his bust in Skygrip. Many scars run across his face, and his eyes are afraid as he clutches a painful stomach and stares into the dark. He thinks that he has failed, that he will drift across the Boundary.

They were here, where I am, thinks Losara. They were here and they succeeded. I have not yet passed the Boundary.

Raker fades and a young Battu takes his place. Battu rows ceaselessly, his muscles bulging under his black robe, fierce determination on his face. Abruptly he lets the oars drop and stands up tall in the boat. ‘Receive me, my gods!’ he calls. ‘Your servant is here!’ Moments of silence go by and Battu’s face twists in frustration. He sits down and begins to row once more.

Now his view is from beneath the waves, looking up at the boat far above, cutting across a roof of water. Ahead is a great undersea mountain, and Losara sees something climbing the slope. The sense of
presence
the entity exudes is awe-inspiring, and he draws closer in the dream, taking in the immensity of it. Colossal armoured legs rise and fall, sinking deeply into sand and rock with equal ease. Plates of exoskeletal armour as wide as villages creak against each other as it climbs, its cyclopean front claws opening like scissors. It is like a gigantean lobster, its horny black armour streaked with greens and reds, a being so enormous it could swat dragons like dragonflies. Slowly and surely it plods up the rise towards the boat.

Losara sees the hands of the boat’s occupant trailing in the water as he sleeps. In a moment of cold clarity, he realises he is shadowdreaming the present, that the person in the boat is him, and the creature is reaching towards him with pincers that could crush towers . . .

Back
he went, streaming to his body, rushing to contain his consciousness within it. At the very moment he arrived back inside himself, he heard a
snick
in the water beside him. The tips of the entity’s claws appeared above the surface, razor-sharp points clicking together at the pinnacle of the great appendages. Losara sat up abruptly, raising his hands from the water to find them gone, sliced cleanly at the wrist. Twin fountains erupted from the stumps as his life pulsed out of him in a torrent. He wondered vaguely if the attack was over, or if the boat would smash around him as the monster finished its work. A moment later his eyes glazed over and he passed out.