Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

Today, though the sun was blazing in the sky, Borgordusmae merely glowed warmly. Naphur sat as relaxed as possible, listening to the Citizen Prime for Kadass going on about some new lake he wanted to build. His muscular body only just fitted into the seat. He often wondered why whichever ancient magic bugger it was who’d created the damn thing had given it such a towering back, such huge armrests and sides, and yet such a constrictive seat. Addle-brained wizards, he thought. No grasp of the important things. A cushion would have been nice too.

  When a messenger came running, interrupting the Citizen Prime with her surprising news, Borgordusmae flashed brilliantly. ‘What did you say?’ asked the Throne, leaning forward intently.

  ‘The news, my lord,’ the messenger said, ‘is that Corlas Corinas, long-missing commander of the Shining Mines –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know who Corlas Corinas is,’ Naphur said, waving impatiently.

  ‘– has this very afternoon walked back into the barracks as though he never left, and is down there right now talking to the gerent.’

  ‘Well, get him up here talking to the Throne!’ roared Naphur.

  ‘Yes, lord!’

  The messenger scuttled off down the red carpet, which ran from Borgordusmae’s dais to a sunken stairwell at the opposite end of the roof. The Throne sat back as excited conversation broke out amongst the court. He put a hand to the Auriel, a habit of his when he was thinking. Many speculated that touching the sacred crown brought Naphur closer to Arkus, but in fact Naphur had always put a hand to his forehead when he was thinking and the Auriel merely got in the way.

  He stood abruptly and walked from the throne. The court paid no attention, as Naphur never remained seated for long. As he moved towards the edge of the roof, only two pairs of eyes followed him. One pair belonged to Baygis Naphur, the Throne’s only son. Baygis was eighteen. He had none of his father’s build, but instead had a lithe, slender grace and a mischievously handsome face. His hair was a short and spiky brown, he wore an earring in one ear and the yellow robes of an apprentice mage. With his talent for magic, all Baygis’s teachers agreed that the cloth would not remain that colour for long. Baygis caught Fahren watching the Throne too, and arched an eyebrow at the old mage. Silently the two made their way after their lord, to the edge of the roof where no wall or railing ran.

  ‘I didn’t expect I’d be granted a moment to think,’ grumbled Naphur.

  ‘You have been granted something better,’ said Fahren, winking at Baygis. ‘Counsel.’

  ‘Pfah!’ said Naphur, crossing his hairy arms. ‘I don’t know what makes you two believe you deserve such input. Especially you, young man!’ He aimed his broad chin at Baygis. ‘The Throneship has survived long without your invaluable advice.’

  Baygis shot Naphur an exaggerated look of surprise, then proceeded to bow far too low. ‘My lord Throne,’ he said, the smile on his face sounding in his voice, ‘it is only because I recognise my own inexperience that I am here. I simply wish to learn something of rule from watching you. If I offer my own views, it is simply to test them against one who is wiser and older. Much older.’

  Naphur stared bristling at his son’s exposed back, then at Fahren who was wrestling a smile without much success.

  ‘Stop it!’ he said.

  ‘Stop what?’ asked Baygis, rising with such a look of sincerity that it almost made Naphur grin. He squashed the impulse by spinning away from his son, red cloak swirling behind him, to stare out over the land.

  ‘I really am interested in this fellow Corlas who vexes you so,’ said Baygis.

  ‘You vex me!’ said Naphur. ‘I was nowhere near this vexed before!’ He rammed his hands down onto his hips and snorted loudly through his nose. ‘And you, Fahren, stop strangling that laugh in your throat and pop it out before your heart collapses, you old bastard!’

  Fahren hooted with laughter.

  ‘Clowns for counsellors!’ muttered Naphur. Then he glanced at their faces and couldn’t help but laugh as well.

  Those closest in the court turned curiously at the sound and saw the three most powerful men in Kainordas laughing together as they looked out over the realm. Somehow, they felt safer for it.

  ‘Corlas was an excellent soldier,’ said Naphur, now speaking seriously. ‘He was already a cerepan when I first met him at the Autumn Games. I fought him there, actually, and we talked on a couple of occasions. I liked the man.’

  ‘Did he beat you?’

  ‘What?

  ‘When you fought him.’

  ‘Shush, Baygis. I thought you wanted to hear this.’ Naphur scratched at the hair that crawled up the back of his neck. ‘Anyway, he was promoted to commander and posted down to the Shining Mines, where men of his quality are always needed. The reports I had of him were good. The gerent down there was most impressed.’ Naphur flexed his jaw. ‘Then came the unexpected attack from Battu. It wasn’t his full force, but it should have been enough to take the fort. It seemed inevitable that the Mines would fall. Then Corlas convinced the troops – against the gerent’s orders, I might add – to leave the fort and take the battle out to Battu’s army. The move, being thoroughly unconventional, saved the Mines. They say Corlas sat astride his war horse carving a path of death wherever he went, so charged with battle frenzy that none could touch him. He wounded the very Shadowdreamer himself.

  ‘After the shadow receded, Corlas was found unconscious on the field, a wound on him to kill a lesser man. Instead he lived, and was taken from the fort into Erling’s Vale where the best healers are. The reports I had were that he recovered slowly but surely . . . and then, after he’d almost fully healed, he disappeared. At first I thought he must have grown tired of sitting around mending, as many good soldiers do, and had simply granted himself permission to return to his post . . . but weeks went by, and it became clear that he’d really disappeared. I sent soldiers to search the land between Erling’s Vale and the Mines, but they found nothing. Opinions formed about what had happened, but we never had any real information. Many thought the Shadowdreamer had managed to find Corlas and mete out revenge. Others believed that Corlas had deserted. All I know – I hate losing a Corlas.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fahren, ‘we’ll know what happened to him soon enough.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Naphur. ‘There’s the wise counsel I was kept waiting for.’ He turned to Baygis. ‘You would know of this man, son, if you had slept and eaten in the barracks as I did in my youth.’

  ‘Father,’ Baygis said, ‘if we must have this argument yet again, I’ll beg you to remember that it was at Mother’s insistence I did not become a soldier.’

  ‘Wilful bloody woman,’ muttered Naphur. ‘Just don’t pretend you weren’t happy with her intervention.’

  ‘Actually, Father, I was quite disappointed by it. You know I’ve never been one to shy away from new experiences.’

  Naphur eyed his son suspiciously for any hint of sarcasm. Before he could reach a conclusion, the messenger arrived back to announce that Corlas was on his way. As Naphur turned to stride back to Borgordusmae, Baygis added, ‘And I doubt I’ll ever grow tired of looking at soldiers.’

  Naphur pretended not to hear.

  The court fell quiet in anticipation as footsteps sounded on the sunken stairs. Gerent Ratacks emerged, and with him came Corlas. The court was silently impressed by the man. He was physically intimidating, tall and wide, his torso wrapped in powerful muscles. Although he didn’t wear the uniform of a soldier, he walked with the same attention, his axe moving about his thigh like an extension of his body. His brown beard, moustache and hair were all thick, glossy and well groomed, and his features were hard, angular and proud. He strode towards Borgordusmae with assurance, ignoring the folk on either side, dropping to his knee when he got there.

  ‘My Throne,’ Corlas said. ‘My name is Corlas, of the bloodline –’

  ‘I
remember you, Corlas Corinas,’ interrupted the Throne, framed by the golden light of Borgordusmae. ‘Do you suppose I’d forget the warrior who bested me at the Autumn Games?’

  A few murmurs travelled about the court.

  ‘Arise!’ commanded Naphur, and Corlas straightened immediately. ‘I don’t feel like painting a rainbow here. Let’s get to the point: where have you been?’

  Corlas stared ahead. ‘It has been very strange, my Throne,’ he said slowly. ‘I was at Erling’s Vale, as you would know, healing from the injuries given me at the Shining Mines. Once I could walk again, I did – around the vale itself, the Grass Ocean and . . . near to Whisperwood.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Naphur.

  ‘They say it is a place of Old Magic,’ said Corlas, and now he did meet the Throne’s eyes. ‘I believe it, lord. I fear I strayed there once too often. One day I was sitting by a stream near the forest’s edge when a magical creature came to me. A Sprite woman.’

  Again, murmurs through the court.

  ‘Even now I do not understand it. I was . . . entranced. She led me into the forest. I was held in thrall by her for many years. I forgot who I had been. I forgot where I had come from. I forgot my responsibilities.’ Corlas shook his head. ‘It is hard to recall now. It was like a long dream.’

  ‘And never once did you dream about escape?’ asked the Throne.

  ‘I was bewitched, lord,’ replied Corlas. ‘It was not possible even to imagine escape. I did not desire it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Corlas shrugged. ‘I couldn’t really say, lord. I woke up one morning and she had gone. For a time I was confused, disoriented. Then I began to walk home. As I went, I remembered much that I’d forgotten. Now here I stand: returned and restored to your service, my Throne.’

  Naphur leaned back in his throne, frowning. Then: ‘High Mage!’ he called, and Fahren stepped forward. ‘High Mage, you have heard the man’s story. Does one who understands magic,’ he spat the word, ‘believe this could be true?’

  ‘My Throne,’ said Fahren, ‘it is true I cannot sense any enchantment about the man now. As for the story he tells, I have heard of stranger things where magic is concerned. It is also true that Whisperwood is an unpredictable place, seldom ventured into, about which we know little. There are many tales of strange happenings there. It is said the spirits of the Sprites live there still.’

  Fahren nodded, so imperceptibly that only Naphur saw it, and they shared a private understanding. Fahren was an extremely intuitive mage, excellent at sensing lies (something which made him an irresistible challenge to Baygis) and if Fahren believed Corlas, Naphur was inclined to also.

  ‘So, Corlas,’ said Naphur, ‘I suppose the question is, what shall we do with you? Your old post at the Mines is taken by a gerent to whom I do not begrudge the position –’

  ‘Nor I, lord. Nor was I ever gerent.’

  ‘– and I would prefer to keep you here at the Halls for a time anyway. We’ll have to make sure this enchantment has really worn off.’

  ‘If I may speak, lord?’

  ‘Speak away.’

  ‘I had not expected to be granted my old rank, nor do I wish for it.’

  For a moment it seemed the light coming off Borgordusmae beamed a little brighter. ‘Indeed?’ said the Throne. ‘So you’ve returned to tell me you didn’t desert but that you now intend to?’

  ‘No, my lord!’ said Corlas quickly.

  The Throne sat back, a stern expression on his face.

  ‘I do not wish to desert,’ reiterated Corlas. ‘Only to request a new position. It will be soon enough that my hair runs grey, lord, yet I always wished to build a family. I have lost six years and now . . . I wish to stay in one place.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought perhaps I’d have something to teach the young here. About battle.’

  Naphur blinked as he realised what Corlas was asking. ‘You want to be demoted?’ he said incredulously. ‘To taskmaster? You want to be a teacher?’

  ‘I have fought well for you, lord,’ said Corlas, ‘in my day. Let me help others to do it in theirs.’

  ‘You aren’t that old!’ said Naphur. ‘And, by Arkus, if you are, that makes me old too – which I’m not – and I won’t stop being the Throne when my hair goes grey, let me tell you!’

  ‘My Throne –’ started Fahren, but Naphur cut him off with a raised palm.

  ‘I did not ask for your wisdom, High Mage,’ he said, staring hard at Corlas. ‘I can always use a good commander. I don’t like to lose them. Especially not twice.’

  Corlas’s gaze returned to the middle distance. Naphur studied his unflinching features and received an inkling of how tired the man was. Maybe it was something in the grey storm of his eyes, or the lines on his face. If Corlas could inspire on the battlefield, maybe he could inspire on the training grounds too. Besides, Naphur would know where he was if ever he needed to call him to a greater duty.

  ‘It will be an odd occasion,’ he said eventually.

  Corlas looked confused. ‘Pardon, my lord?’

  ‘Tomorrow night. In the barracks.’

  Corlas continued to look puzzled, as did many of the courtiers. Fahren watched patiently, a smile darting around the edges of his mouth.

  ‘Well, it will be a rather forked event, won’t it?’ continued Naphur. ‘A feast in honour of a hero’s return – and the announcement of his demotion.’

  Corlas relaxed as understanding sank in. ‘Thank you, my Throne,’ he said gratefully.

  Naphur leaned forward. ‘Now on your way before I change my mind,’ he growled. ‘We will talk more later.’

  Corlas bowed deeply.

  •

  Corlas was relieved he had managed to tell the truth, even if it had been a thoroughly misleading version. He well remembered Fahren’s reputation for seeing through false claims and could not afford to be caught out at this crucial stage of the plan. As he headed down the stairs someone called him from behind, and his heart sank as he realised the High Mage bounced down the steps after him.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ said Fahren, landing at his side. ‘I understand why you wish to make a hasty retreat. You’re probably exhausted.’

  ‘I am tired,’ agreed Corlas.

  ‘Yes. I just wished to know a bit more of this Sprite woman.’

  Corlas wondered how long it would be until his façade was shattered. ‘Of course,’ he said, knowing there would be no escaping this. Better to try to satisfy the mage’s curiosity now and have it done with one way or another.

  ‘Would you tell me about her?’

  If you would listen, thought Corlas, I could talk of her for hours. Instead he shrugged. ‘What would you know?’

  ‘You said you were enchanted. I’m curious about what form this enchantment took.’

  That was easy. ‘I believed I loved her.’

  ‘I see. And . . .’

  ‘I thought her the most beautiful creature in the whole world, High Mage. I remembered no time before her and could imagine no time after. One day I woke up and she was not there. So I left. I don’t know what else to tell you.’

  ‘You were in that wood for years,’ said Fahren, growing more forceful. ‘Surely there is more?’

  ‘That is the way I remember it.’

  ‘Where did you live?’

  ‘In the trees,’ replied Corlas, lying outright for the first time. ‘In a house in the trees.’

  It was an image he remembered from stories of Sprites he’d heard as a child. If he told Fahren he’d lived in a little hut in a clearing, Fahren might start to ask difficult questions.

  ‘There is something else,’ said Fahren carefully. ‘Some months ago, while you may still have been there, there were some very peculiar goings-on in Whisperwood.’ The mage raised a wispy blon
d eyebrow. ‘Do you know anything of this? Did you see anything strange?’

  ‘The wood is a strange place,’ rumbled Corlas. ‘Often I believed there was more than trees out there. Is that what you mean?’

  Fahren looked searchingly into Corlas’s eyes for a long moment. Finally he frowned. ‘No,’ he said. His expression grew friendlier once more. ‘Well then, Taskmaster Corlas,’ he said, patting Corlas’s shoulder, ‘I should let you go. I’m sure you’ve much settling in to do.’

  Corlas bowed his head. ‘Thank you, High Mage.’

  Fahren nodded. ‘And, Corlas?’

  ‘Yes, High Mage?’

  ‘Welcome home.’

  •

  For two months Corlas took up the purposeful waiting that he was careful to disguise. It took great willpower to appear to be settling in and glad to be back. His welcoming feast had called for him to be jovial as he drank. In actuality the drink made his mood darker, and he found himself trying to chuckle with people he would have preferred to put an axe through.

  One startling moment was when he saw the paintings made in his honour. He was especially interested in one tableau of the battle at the Shining Mines. It depicted him amongst raging forces of light and shadow, aiming a crossbow, his face fiercer than he’d ever imagined it. The target of the bolt was a dark silhouette all wrapped up in a billowing cloak, long cruel hands extended to the sky – the Shadowdreamer. Above was a vortex of dark blue energy, conjured by the Shadowdreamer, set to obliterate the both of them. Corlas had paused for a long moment before the scene and the disturbing memories it returned to him. It had seemed a lifetime ago, until right then.

  As he’d requested, the Throne had made him a taskmaster. To his great surprise he discovered that he was good with students. It was only with the children that he forgot his simmering anger and disconnection from any kind of loyalty to the light. His troubles were not the fault of the young. What was more unbelievable was that the children, especially the younger ones, liked their big, gruff hero teacher in return. He felt conflicted about training them to serve those he no longer believed in, but as he kept telling himself, it was necessary if he was to achieve his end. The students would be the only ones he’d miss once he escaped with his son.