Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (26 page)

•

Iassia was joyous to be restored, savouring the air under his wings as he zipped through town. He was weary, but it wasn’t the crippling weakness of the last few days. Dinner had been welcome too: a pigeon that had been roosting peacefully until his sharp little beak had stabbed into the main artery of its neck.

He landed on top of Treewith Inn, wondering what to do next. He would alert the Shadowdreamer to Bel’s whereabouts, but doubted the dark lord’s operatives would arrive before Bel made it back to the Halls. Battu would be angry, but Iassia wasn’t worried. Even if Battu shadow-travelled to ask him questions, he would claim he’d only just stumbled across the lad tonight, and it was very sad there was no time left to take advantage of the situation.

After that, there was one more thing. He fluttered about the town, peeping through open windows, and soon found what he was looking for.

•

The small blond boy was stupid and easy to manipulate. He was also a clumsy writer and Iassia was growing frustrated. He hid it well, however, continuing to speak to the child in warm, soothing tones.

‘Come now, young Meriwan,’ he chirped from his place on the oak writing desk. ‘Surely parents wealthy enough to own a lovely house such as this have also seen to your education?’

‘Yes, birdy,’ said the boy. ‘Mr Neirdu is my tutor. He comes for lessons once a day, and I gotta practise an hour after too!’

‘Well, that sounds like fun,’ said Iassia.

Meriwan pursed his lips. ‘It ain’t,’ he said. ‘I hate it. It’s borin’.’

The child stomped across the study, which was located on the second floor of a large house. The parents, who were downstairs with guests, were obviously well-to-do. Paintings and tapestries hung from the walls, and the ledge above the fireplace was littered with jade statuettes. The child Meriwan had been asleep in his upstairs bedroom when Iassia had spied him through an open window. It seemed, unfortunately, that the child’s delight at meeting a talking bird was not enough to overcome his dislike of writing. Iassia was having to work harder than expected and he was getting a headache.

‘Now, Meriwan,’ he said, ‘the sooner you finish the letter for me, the sooner I can give you your reward.’ The child’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Just a couple more lines and then we can go. This boring work will be over very quickly if you just
sit down and finish
.’

‘Allllll riiiiiight,’ said the child, begrudgingly walking back to the desk and sitting down. He picked up the quill and dipped it in ink. ‘What next?’

Iassia dictated the last lines of the letter and the child struggled onwards, sometimes stopping to sound out longer words. Iassia was sure there’d be spelling mistakes, but it hardly mattered as long as the message was clear. Finally it was written, and Iassia had Meriwan read it back to him. This also took a long time, and his anger with the moronic man-child grew, though he was the picture of patience as he listened. Eventually the child finished.

‘That was very good, Meriwan,’ said Iassia. ‘Thank you very much. Now all we need is for the letter to go into one of these envelopes here . . . that’s right . . . now a wax seal like you’ve seen Papa do, I’m sure . . . wonderful . . . and now we address it.’

Finally the letter was written, sealed and addressed. ‘What a wonderful job you’ve done, bright boy,’ said Iassia, making Meriwan beam with pride. ‘You’ve certainly earned your reward!’

‘It’s time?’ Meriwan asked with eyes alight.

‘Oh yes,’ chirped Iassia. ‘It certainly is. Open the window, child.’

Meriwan went to the study window and creaked it open. Iassia felt sudden attention from downstairs. Someone had heard.

‘Now, child,’ said Iassia, ‘I grant you the magical power of flight!’ And he flew around Meriwan’s head, singing a soft and lilting song as he whispered softly into his mind:
The power of flight is yours . . . the power of flight is yours . . .

‘That’s it?’ said the child excitedly. ‘I can fly?’

‘Of course you can,’ said Iassia. ‘What kind of magic bird would I be if my spells didn’t work?’

He swooped down onto the desk and snatched up the letter in his claws.

‘All right, my bright boy,’ he continued quickly, hearing steps on the stairs outside. ‘Let us go out together, soaring into the night! Think how jealous your friends will be!’

‘Mr Neirdu can’t teach me writing if I can fly away!’ chuckled Meriwan.

‘Indeed!’ laughed Iassia. There was a footstep just outside the study door. ‘Here we go, Meriwan! Follow me!’

•

As Meriwan’s father opened the study door, he cried out in horror to see his son leaping from the window, laughing happily. The sound continued downwards, stopping abruptly as Meriwan hit the paving below.

Twenty-three / What was Taken

Twenty-three

What was Taken

What was Taken

Cold wrapped him like a second skin. Was he in the depths of the sea? Floating in the shadowdream? Both? How long had he been here? Hours, days . . . longer? Time had no meaning in this void. Sometimes he heard voices, and maybe he was spinning, as if being turned in huge hands . . . or claws? Then came one voice above the others, clear and silken.

‘Losara.’

‘Who is there?’ he asked, not exactly with words.

‘We are those who gave you your name. We are those who will ask you to serve.’

‘You are the gods.’

‘As you say.’

Something rose in the black and carried him along, though he could not tell where, or from where.

‘What is this place?’

‘No place. Between places. You are here while your body is mended. You are here to see.’

‘See what?’

‘What was taken,’ said the voice.

Darkness turned to light.

•

He was in a forest, creeping through undergrowth. It was like being in the dream, but this time he was not a floating observer, nor even himself. He was someone else. He was seeing through another’s eyes, running on someone else’s feet, thinking someone else’s thoughts. His own consciousness retreated into the background, a dim awareness only, as he
became . . .

. . .
Bel ducked under the frond of an enormous fern and glanced around through the trees. A tingle ran down his spine. Somewhere in Drel Forest there were huggers, and soon he would be fighting them. Here he was, on the cusp of battle – something he had imagined, played at and trained for almost as long as he could remember. Soon his sword would leap from its scabbard with real purpose, and perhaps it would never slide back in. Thrills went through him at the thought, every sense alert. He found, to his surprise, that he was not afraid. He felt like a boy again. He came upon numerous opponents, carved his way through, his blood firing at each blow landed, each attack dodged. He fought with sword and fist and bow, fought with rapture and a sense of purpose, until the battle was over . . . he put brittleleaf between Munpo’s dead lips . . .

Losara floated free, himself once more, a rude shock. Gone was the body of Bel, the thoughts, emotions and memories, all at once and without warning. He felt as if he had been inverted. For a short time he had
been
his counterpart. He remembered Bel’s feelings, but now only as words – they had none of their colour or taste. They were foreign, and he knew he could not manufacture them on his own. A sense of loss came over him, but his old calm returned and he put it aside. There was nothing he could do but seek to understand . . .

. . . ‘If you’re to be a leader,’ Munpo said, ‘and Taskmaster Corlas assures me that the Throne is takin’ a personal interest in your military career, then the more you know the better.’

Leadership – there had been memories associated with that. Bel had often led his student peers to victory in mock skirmishes. He was popular and had become quickly respected within his new troop. The Throne himself had picked him out to lead. Losara knew that he too would have to lead one day. Did he possess Bel’s qualities? Would he be able to inspire? Would soldiers follow him because they wanted to, or because they had to?

. . . Bel felt as if he skimmed across the ground. He barrelled onwards, and the air through his nostrils had never seemed so sweet. A hugger dropped in front of him and he ran it through, trampling its corpse beneath him. Faced with death, he had never felt so alive . . .

There was war in Losara’s future, but he did not look forward to it, did not derive any satisfaction from causing harm. Bel, on the other hand, seemed well suited to the task. Bel would not shy from killing; he would seek it out. How did a reluctance to kill fit into Losara’s future of conquering the world?

. . . His movements 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 . . .

A soldier, then, he might have been. The spirit of battle, dancing with death, instinctively able to navigate a fight. Instead, such a man was his opponent.

Lost in such thoughts, he rose above the forest until he could see only treetops.

He awoke.

•

He was on his back, staring up at the roiling darkness of the Cloud. The sound of lapping water came from all sides and a cold wind moved the blue hair from his eyes. He felt different.

He sat up. Beneath him, wet black stone ran down to the sea, which began just past his feet. Behind him rose a misshapen hill dotted with tiny blue flowers. He was on Assedrynn’s Isle.

There was a splash at the water’s edge as waves broke against the island. About a hundred paces out, something was rising from the sea. Spines pierced the surface, as tall as trees, and a huge bulk followed. Fibrous triple-pointed fins spread out flat over the water’s surface, hauling up a bulging fish-like head. The head reared – thick rubbery lips and glistening black eyes, with whiskers that whipped like tentacles. There was no mistaking the being – Losara had seen him many times in carvings and paintings.

Assedrynn.

Losara rolled fluidly into a kneel. The water continued to bubble and then, to the god’s left and right, others rose. Awe washed through Losara with each head that broke the surface. There was Elsara, the lionfish, all spines and stripes, sunset orange and blood red. Mokan and Mer, the twins, were like green-scaled Graka with fin-like wings. Lampet, the serpent, his long cobbled neck rising high above the sea, the oval eyes in his dragon’s head glowing blue, then yellow, then red, then green. Antennae and claws erupted upwards, and Losara recognised Chirruk, the watcher, who had taken his hands.

His hands?

Something stopped him looking. It felt like they were still there, but lighter, like the rest of him. He felt as if he could run a thousand leagues without drawing a breath. He rubbed his fingers together – like silk they were. What had changed? Still he did not look, not yet. One thing at a time, and he was still marvelling that the Dark Gods were just across the water. Should he be afraid? Others would have been. The gods could grant him favour or obliterate his spirit, but either way it was their choice and he could do nothing but be himself. Where was the fear in that?

‘Losara.’

It was the voice from the void, but now it echoed across the sea, rich and full. Assedrynn’s voice.

‘My masters,’ Losara said. ‘You honour me.’

Lampet’s eyes flared blue and his head extended over the sea until he was but paces away. His jaws opened, revealing a crystal maw, stalactite fangs that glinted in the light of his eyes. His voice rasped, and Losara felt breath like the air of an ancient cavern wash over him.

‘It is you who honour us, saviour child.’

Losara stared mesmerised into the pulsing eyes. Sometimes he
could
understand fear.

‘Recede, Lampet,’ said Assedrynn. Lampet drew back, the coils of his body slipping under the surface until only his head remained. ‘Your coming is welcome, Losara,’ continued Assedrynn. ‘We had feared the Caretaker might try something foolish.’

‘The Caretaker?’ asked Losara.

‘The present Shadowdreamer. His pride has turned him against our will.’

‘His greed!’ howled Mokan, her voice like piercing wind. ‘He spent too long with the sharks, the sharks!’

‘Silence, Mokan,’ said Assedrynn. ‘There are many things to discuss and this is not the first. Losara.’

‘Master?’

‘We know you have not looked, but Chirruk is anxious. What do you think of her work?’

Again Losara rubbed his fingers. So smooth. Slowly he looked down . . . and gasped at what had been done.

The slice at his wrists was clean. Where skin ended there was shadow, as if he wore gloves made from night. But they weren’t gloves, they were his hands. Shadowhands.

‘Your mortal blood is drained away,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Our essence in its place. Shadow travels the winding paths of your body, feeds your flesh, moves your heart.’

Losara turned his hands, feeling nothing of the cold breeze. In the darkness, they were darker. They were beautiful.

‘The world is changing,’ said Assedrynn. ‘Arkus seeks an end to the war between the gods. Your counterpart will side with him, and do much with what was taken from you. We need a champion, saviour child. Someone to carry our will to the world, to save our peoples, and us. Someone to serve as Shadowhand.

‘Great power is yours, greater than the world has ever known.’ The god rose further out of the sea, water rolling down his bulk. ‘Will you serve us first and only, Losara Shadowhand?’

Losara looked north. Somewhere out there, the sun beat down on grassy fields and the enemies of his people plotted to conquer and destroy. His counterpart, turned against him, was waiting.

‘Yes,’ he said, as wind blew hair back from his midnight eyes. ‘I will serve. But not first and only.’

Assedrynn stirred, and Lampet’s eyes flared red.

‘As well,’ said Losara.

•

Lalenda gazed at the wall of her stark little room, thinking thoughts of home. Somewhere out there was Swampwild, and her mother, and others of her kind. They all seemed very far away, a dream from another life.

She went to her dusty mirror and regarded herself critically. She opened her wings, flexing them for the first time in weeks. She saw how creased and crinkled they were, and knew how weak they had become. She scowled at her reflection and walked out of the room.

Down to the base of Skygrip she travelled, heading for the entrance cavern – the only place she knew of that led to a cave complex beneath the castle. It took her some time to reach the bottom as she didn’t know the route through the twisted corridors, nor the portal doors that would quicken the journey. She was careful to avoid patrols in case they took exception to her presence – she had no official reason to be so far down in the castle. Eventually she arrived at the entrance cavern and turned her eyes to the tunnel openings that lined its walls. Most led back up into the castle, but one or two, she knew, went down. Her eyes fell on a promising one and, after checking that the coast was clear, she circled the chamber towards it.

Voices floated into the cavern and she froze in the shadow of a towering statue. A cleaning squad of Grey Goblins emerged from a tunnel carrying buckets and mops and, to Lalenda’s dismay, set to work slopping water on the floor. She waited until they had settled into the task, then glanced over at the tunnel she wanted. It was only about twenty paces away.

‘What does it matter if they see you anyway?’ she whispered to herself. ‘They’re only cleaners.’

She skipped from the shadows, her wings spreading to make her lighter on her feet. She made little sound as she skimmed the floor and plunged into the enveloping blackness of the tunnel entrance. The Greys gave no indication they’d seen her. Relieved, she went further into the tunnel, which sloped downwards into dark. It took some moments for her eyes to adjust, and even then she couldn’t make out much. The best night vision was not much use in absolute darkness, and she paused to reconsider her plan.

Icy fingers ran through her hair and caressed her neck, making her cry out in terror. The air around her seemed to move, there was a flash of white – and a gigantic, grinning maw of fangs appeared.

‘What you be doin’ down here, little tasty?’

Lalenda backed away, quaking. She’d never seen the Golgoleth Ghost before, but knew this must be him.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the front door?’ she managed to stammer.

The grin widened and claws as long as swords flashed about her. ‘Supposed to be, yes,’ came the dry, hollow voice. ‘But Grimra can go further from his amulet than most people be thinking. Why you be going into the caves, little flutterbug?’

Lalenda found herself backed against the wall. She tried to inch her way back up the tunnel. ‘Er . . . I’m just lost,’ she said. ‘But thank you for setting me right.’

‘Lost?’ The grin reappeared right in front of her, halting her progress entirely, turning her knees to water. ‘Then no one is knowin’ you be here?’

Lalenda plucked at the first thing she thought of. ‘I’m on an extremely important errand for Lord Battu,’ she tried. ‘I’m his prophet, so if you eat me, he won’t be very happy!’

A bark of laughter blew across her face. ‘What change be that? Battu never be happy.’ The mouth drifted away as if floating on a breeze. ‘But wait,’ said the ghost. ‘You be the prophet?’

‘That’s right,’ rallied Lalenda, sticking out her chin. ‘Battu’s best!’

‘Lalenda,’ said the ghost thoughtfully.

Lalenda was surprised. ‘That’s right. How did you know that?’

The Golgoleth snarled, a frightening sound. ‘Losara tell me,’ he said. ‘Claw and tooth! Now Grimra not be able to eat you, little flutterbug!’

He moaned and circled the tunnel, sending up blasts of air as he went, slashing at nothing with claws that appeared as quickly as they disappeared. Still afraid, but growing bolder, Lalenda stepped away from the wall.

‘Excuse me,’ she said as bravely as she could, ‘but did you say you won’t eat me?’

‘No,’ said Grimra, settling down. ‘Grimra not eat Lalenda.’

‘Why?’

‘Lalenda be Losara’s friend. Eating her not be making Losara happy.’

‘Losara has . . . talked about me? To you?’

‘Stupid flutterbug!’ hissed the ghost. ‘Be you not listening? Losara speaks well of Lalenda, so Grimra cannot crunch her bones. No, no. Not suck her head dry neither, nor mince her bowels in his claws. Poor, poor Grimra!’

Lalenda didn’t know what to make of this. She glanced down into the darkness.

‘You be goin’ to the caves?’ asked Grimra.

‘Er . . . yes.’

‘Lalenda be careful. Not all ways be safe down here. Why should Grimra let Lalenda go into the darkness? Losara be angry if Lalenda is hurt.’

‘I need a place to fly,’ said Lalenda before thinking about it.