Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (41 page)

‘The answer will come,’ she murmured. ‘It has to – fate got you this far.’

The door to the inn opened and a willowy girl in a red and yellow robe emerged. She went to an urn of water, then spotted them and gave a start.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, trying not to stare at Bel’s hair. ‘I didn’t see you there. I’m Gertrum, the innkeeper’s daughter . . . I was just going to water the plants, but I can come back later if I’m disturbing you . . .’

Jaya giggled softly. ‘What a sweet girl,’ she whispered sarcastically.

‘Go ahead,’ said Bel with a wave. ‘Water the plants.’

Gertrum nodded and turned back to the urn. She put her hand in the water and a hissing began. The water bubbled and boiled, and vapour rose rapidly from its surface. Gertrum waggled the fingers of her other hand, magically collecting the vapour into a ball. After a couple of minutes, she had created a dense little cloud.

‘Well,’ said Jaya, ‘I’d been wondering why there wasn’t a watering can.’

Bel watched with interest as the girl walked around the courtyard with the cloud. She would wave it into position above a plant, then mumble something and rain fell.

‘That’s nothing,’ said Jaya. ‘Back in Athika, our family sometimes paid for the services of a weather mage. Dry plains out there, sometimes too dry for the crops we planted. I’ve seen a mage gather moisture from a cloudless sky and make it storm . . . if only for a moment.’

Bel’s gaze turned slowly from Gertrum’s little smudge of vapour to the grey mass of the Cloud that loomed above them. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. ‘You there!’ he exclaimed, so forcefully it made Gertrum jump. He strode over and took her by the arm. ‘This spell you’re casting – what is it?’

‘Um . . . er . . .’ She glanced at his hand but did not pull free. ‘It’s just a rain spell my lord. Most mages can do them – it’s just basic magic.’

‘And it affects the whole cloud on which it is cast?’

‘Um . . . well, yes, lord.’

His hand shot up to the sky, finger pointing at the billowing darkness. ‘Could it be cast on a cloud like that?’

‘I . . . I don’t know,’ the girl stammered. Jaya stood and gently prised Bel’s unthinking grip from her arm. ‘Maybe. If you were close to the heart of it.’

‘The heart of it,’ repeated Bel, as the cry of the whelkling boomed off the walls.

Thirty-six / The Storm

Thirty-six

The Storm

The Storm

Suddenly Losara was himself in the dream, watching Battu striding back and forth and shouting orders at the troops.

Let him
, he thought. He was certain that he was meant to eventually supplant Battu as Shadowdreamer, but the gods had not specified a time frame, and there was no point making trouble with Battu before a battle. They needed all the strength they could muster.

He dissolved into shadow and travelled swiftly to the border to look upon the growing army of his other. It was an impressive force, many tens of thousands strong, and each race was fierce and determined. He wondered if the great power he felt inside himself – as yet not truly tested – would be able to hold them all back. Certainly thousands would fall to him, but would it be enough? He didn’t like to discover himself thinking this way – loss of life on such a scale brought him no joy.

Meanwhile, the Fenvarrow army was growing larger by the day, but the gods had been right – the population had never grown back to its full force under the Caretaker. They had a greater diversity of soldiers, that was true, with Arabodedas, Vortharg, Goblin, Graka and Pixie. The Mireform too had kept their word, and though only eight had met Losara’s summons, the arrival of such mighty allies had boosted morale considerably. It was interesting that the Mireforms answered only to him, refusing even to speak with Battu – a fact that Battu glowered over but pointedly failed to mention.

Somehow it all felt wrong. It was happening too fast. It didn’t feel as if he was treading the right path.

Suddenly he was wrenched free of himself as the dream swirled again and thrust into his other, into Bel . . . and it was as before, when he had seen through Bel’s eyes in Drel Forest . . .

•

The whelkling grunted as it dropped from the top of the cobblestoned tower and Bel knew he accounted for most of the weight. Fahren, behind him, was as light as thread and sinew, but Bel was broad and wore steel bands on his legs and arms, along with sword, boot knives, steel skirt and chest piece. Fahren had promised that he could give the whelkling a helping boost and, as they plummeted downwards Bel prayed he would be swift to do so. A moment later he felt an upsurge of warm air and the whelkling suddenly gained height. It began flapping heavily, bearing them up towards the Cloud. He dared to glance downwards, saw those on the ground watching, saw the worry on Jaya’s face as she faded into a pinprick far below.

The whelkling climbed until the Cloud was but paces from their heads. Beneath them sprawled Fenvarrow, dark and unwelcoming. The temperature was dropping rapidly too, and Bel shivered.

‘Look!’ he shouted over the rushing wind.

Some few leagues back from the border, a vast army of shadow creatures camped upon the Stone Fields. There were raised stone paths along which moved war engines and wagons. One, carrying an entire load of dark ice, glowed eerily.

‘You are certain they won’t see us?’

‘No, our invisibility spell is cast.’

‘Good!’

‘Let us just hope that Battu and Losara are both down there seeing to their minions, far from Skygrip.’

Bel felt as if he’d dived into cold water. They were high above and well inside enemy lands, with no turning back. His blood began to tingle.

For hours they flew, passing thousands of shadow creatures below. The glowing lights of the five goblin cities lit up the horizon for a time, blazing against them as they passed over. Bel couldn’t help but feel exposed, despite Fahren’s assurances. Soon the cities fell behind and Skygrip loomed on the horizon. Bel had seen pictures, but he was still awed by the towering fortress of twisted rock and the great spikes of its sceptre head.

‘This is total madness,’ came Fahren’s voice in his ear. ‘Good luck to the both of us!’

The whelkling began a slow decline, which seemed to Bel to stretch an age. Skygrip was so massive that he kept thinking it was closer than it was. They circled about the sceptre head, then angled towards a cave mouth that opened in its side. The whelkling gave its booming cry as they swooped.

A patrol of six Graka appeared around the tower, moving to intercept the whelkling. Angry shouting erupted as they spotted the intruders on its back. Fahren sent crackling bolts of energy at them, and three fell screaming. Two wheeled towards Bel, and he felt a zing through him as he instantly plotted the necessary movements of his sword and saw them transpire a second later. The two Graka shrieked, each missing a wing, and began spiralling like leaves towards the ground. The one remaining Graka turned and dived, managing to dodge Fahren’s bolts. The whelkling flew on obliviously, its course unaltered.

‘They’ll know we’re here!’ Fahren yelled.

‘Let them come!’ screamed Bel.

The cave mouth swallowed them suddenly and they landed in darkness with a heavy thud. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust, aided when Fahren conjured a glowing ball of light to see by. They were in a large cavern populated by stalls of whelklings and cages of birds. Several Grey Goblins stood frozen in surprise, and gasped as Fahren’s light found them. Bel slid from the whelkling and moved forward with a slash and a stab, cutting them down without resistance.

‘Come when I call you,’ whispered Fahren in the whelkling’s floppy ear and pressed his fingers to the side of its head.

‘There,’ said Bel, pointing to a staircase heading upwards. Together they ran towards it.

Skygrip was a maze, but Bel was sure they would find a way to the roof if they kept going up. At the top of the stairs they ran along a tunnel, and heard the sound of running feet echoing behind them. They turned into a wide corridor with a mural of the Dark Gods cut into the wall and came face to face with a goblin patrol. ‘There!’ barked the leader, and without another sound the goblins charged.

Bel rushed to meet them, feeling as if he overtook even himself, and clattered against their knives as a blur. The goblins were faster and more conniving than any hugger, and the path his sword had to travel to keep him alive was tighter and stricter than before. He swished at one hissing face that ducked, but others that rose against him met with steel. The fury overtook him and he laughed as he rent limbs asunder and spattered the walls with black blood. He spun as the last goblin fell and saw that others had caught up from behind. Fahren was backing towards him, one hand holding the glowing sphere that blinded the goblins and made them curse, while his other pumped back and forth sending fireballs that burst messily against whatever they hit and ran like liquid. Bel heard himself yell as he charged past, crunching over sticky charred remains to hack at any who still stood. From somewhere lower down in the castle came wails of rage and the sound of many, many feet.

‘Hurry, Bel,’ shouted Fahren, and they dashed along the corridor and up another flight of stairs. At the top they found a thick wooden door with a lock that Bel’s sword couldn’t smash.

‘Let me,’ said Fahren, pushing him aside with a nudge of power. The mage focused on the lock, which glowed briefly in his hand and clicked open. They toppled out onto the roof, where ahead of them rose the billowing Breath of the Cloud.

‘Close the door!’ Fahren yelled. ‘There are too many for you to fight them all!’

Bel bellowed his indignation and swung his sword. There could never be too many. He slammed the door shut nonetheless.

‘Stand back!’ ordered Fahren and Bel stalked away. The mage made a circular action with his hands and there came a great grinding noise. A disc of rock lifted from the roof, cracking to pieces as it did. Fahren’s hands shot forward and the pieces hurled against the door, driving it into its hinges and piling up against it. Almost immediately came a thumping on the other side.

‘It will take me some time to channel enough power into the spell,’ called Fahren as he moved towards the Breath. ‘I must not be interrupted. You must protect me.’

He fell to his knees before the great spout, raising hands that glowed white as he built up power. Bel strode to stand over him, watching the skies and the door, his sword jumpy in his hand. Pebbles on top of the rock pile wobbled as those behind the door strained to open it.

‘Get axes!’ came a muffled shout.

A group of Graka appeared at the edge of the roof. They spotted him and Fahren immediately, but did not yet swoop towards them. Another pair appeared, beating their wings more heavily, and after a moment Bel saw why – each had an arm hooked under that of a Black Goblin, who hung between them in the air. As soon as they brought him over the edge, he twisted free and landed lightly on all fours like a cat. Astoundingly, a butterfly sailed after him to land on his shoulder. He rose smoothly to his feet, revealing a sword and a brace of daggers hanging around his waist.

‘My my,’ he said in a dusky voice devoid of emotion. ‘Long time since I clapped eyes on you, my boy.’ He padded forward, the sword leaping into his grip, and arched a hairless eyebrow at Fahren. ‘What’s your mage doing there?’

‘Destroying you and all your people,’ said Bel.

Tyrellan bared his fangs. ‘Get him!’ he shouted, and the Graka dived.

Bel held his ground, knowing he could not leave Fahren exposed. He drummed this fact into his head repeatedly, forcibly stopping the path of his sword as it tried to lead him away, resisting the urge to dance amongst the whirling bodies. Instead, he rooted his feet to the ground and let them come to him, each breaking against his steel. As the last Graka fell into the pile of bodies before him, Tyrellan watched him, still and silent.

‘Knotty fellows you have around here,’ Bel said, and poked a dead Graka with his sword. ‘I guess they mark the line. Step over them and die.’

Tyrellan padded forward, halting just shy of the heap of dead Graka. ‘Here?’ he asked. ‘Here is as far as I may tread? Very well.’

His hand moved deceptively and suddenly a dagger flashed towards Bel, heading between his legs towards Fahren’s back. Bel flicked his sword, managing to swipe it out of the air, sending it clattering away over the stone. He lashed out, but Tyrellan didn’t move, and the sword passed a hair’s breadth from the tip of the goblin’s nose.

Tyrellan sneered. ‘Seems you were right,’ he said. ‘That is indeed the line.’

He turned his back and walked casually across the roof to retrieve his dagger. Behind Bel, Fahren’s mumbling got louder and energy crackled.

‘Hurry up, High Mage,’ Bel hissed.

Tyrellan stooped to pick up his weapon, then was suddenly charging with daggers flying. Three points of steel and a sword tip came at Bel as Tyrellan leaped. Bel managed to turn all three daggers aside with a well-timed arc, while catching Tyrellan’s sword on his breastplate with a juddering clang. Tyrellan hit the ground and rolled, his sword flashing at Bel’s feet. Bel jumped and slashed, but confusion seized him. He could not find the right path for his sword to travel and kill this target, only to defend himself. Another dagger came from a new angle and he kicked it, with his boot just a handspan away from Fahren’s face. It spun into the Breath and he didn’t hear it land.

Tyrellan came at him again, slashing and then darting away, staying out of Bel’s self-imposed reach. After the fourth pass Bel roared, ‘You’re not one with time to waste, goblin!’

‘It is done!’ cried Fahren. ‘The spell is cast!’

Bel felt a wet spray hit his back.
Now
, urged his frenzy,
you no longer need to protect the mage
. With a roar he charged forward, his sudden change in tack catching Tyrellan off guard. The goblin was smashed backwards as blades fell so thickly that each combatant seemed to possess more than one. The butterfly fluttered between them, and Bel’s blade rebounded from it as solidly as if it hit iron. He took no time to wonder at such strangeness, and a moment later their swords locked. Bel reached out with his free hand, seized Tyrellan under the arm and hurled him away across the roof. The goblin landed not far from where Fahren lay, exhausted. He raised his orb eyes to the funnel of the Breath, blinking as raindrops fell on his face. Above them, the Breath seemed to be misting away, losing its shape.

‘What have you done!’ howled Tyrellan, leaping to his feet.

The rain grew heavier, a sheet of water expanding outwards, while torrents of water began to cascade off the roof. Lightning cracked, making Tyrellan’s fangs gleam as his face twisted to pure hate.

‘In a storm you were born,’ he hissed. ‘In a storm you will die.’ He sprang towards Bel.

Time seemed to slow and, finally, Bel could see the path. Calmly he bent his knees, then brought his sword up to meet the goblin’s. As soon as he felt the downward pressure of Tyrellan’s blow, he pushed upwards from the ground, lifting his opponent. As the goblin passed overhead, Bel pushed up with his sword and simultaneously punched a hand into Tyrellan’s stomach. The goblin turned head over heels, his sword falling from his grasp as he reached to snatch at a spire as he sailed past – but he was too far away. He made no sound as he travelled out over the edge of the roof and disappeared into the downpour.

Bel stared after him for a moment, finding it oddly bittersweet that such a challenging fight was over. Then he shook his head and started coming back to himself.

‘Fahren!’ he called, running to the mage’s side. ‘Are you all right?’

There was a crash from inside the doorway – those on the other side had managed to pull down the door. Rocks began to shift from the top of the pile.

‘I will be,’ wheezed Fahren. ‘Just have to catch my breath.’

‘Call for the whelkling,’ said Bel. ‘Do it now.’

Fahren smiled. ‘Already did.’

A booming sounded out of the rain and the whelkling skidded to a stop on the wet roof.

‘Good man,’ said Bel, and hoisted Fahren onto its back. ‘Now tell it to take us back to Holdwith.’

The whelkling clumped to the edge of the roof and slipped off just as the last rocks fell free of the doorway. It dropped sickeningly and Bel felt his gizzards rise into his mouth. He clutched desperately to the harness as they scythed downwards, the rain hammering them solidly. In his hands the leather was slick, and Fahren had a grim grasp around his waist that dragged at him. The onrushing wind sprayed water in his eyes, and he only just managed to keep his grip as they levelled out and began a broad curve upwards. Ahead he saw the wall of advancing rain, moving too quickly for them to overtake it. A moment later the water thickened and he could see nothing at all. He knew that this time Fahren might not have the strength to magically aid the whelkling’s flight, so he wrenched off his chest piece and let it fall. After that, there was nothing to do but hunker down, grip the harness as tight as he could and pray that they would make it back to the border.