Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  Losara raised a blue eyebrow. ‘A dangerous game, stealing from the Shadowdreamer.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘You may continue. I would not stand between the Golgoleth and a meal.’

  The leader nodded, and the guards dumped the groaning Vortharg in the middle of the archway. They all bowed to Losara.

  ‘Permission to carry on, sir?’

  ‘On your way.’

  The goblins left gratefully.

  Grimra drifted close to Losara’s ear. ‘Passed out she is,’ the ghost whispered. ‘Hungry as me be, me prefer meals awake!’

  ‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ said Losara.

  There was no response as he walked away and he knew the ghost was concentrating on its food. Glancing back, he saw blade-like claws hanging above the stirring Vortharg, working the air impatiently as if they already shredded flesh. A glimmer of a long-fanged grin appeared, insubstantial as smoke.

  Losara kept walking. He had no desire to see Grimra toy with his food; he took no pleasure in the suffering of others. It wasn’t that alone that turned his heels, however. There was something about the keeping and feeding of such an ancient spirit like a captive beast that didn’t sit right with him either.

  •

  Losara arrived in the library corridor. Deep in the heart of the old mountain, he could sense the density of the rock around him. The statues along the corridor were amorphous and strange, like fonts of frozen lava. At the end of the passage was an intricately carved door covered with spidery runes. He opened it and made his way carefully down a steep set of steps, into the library. At the bottom, the stone floor was partially covered by a large rug that was frayed, faded and dirty. Rugs were a rarity in Fenvarrow, there being little liking for warm feet. He wondered how old it was. It felt prickly on his bare toes. Off to the side was a heavy oak desk. The librarian, Emepso, wasn’t there at the moment, but scrolls and books strewn about were evidence of his continuing presence. All around, bookshelves stretched into the distance. The library had a low roof so it was hard to see how far back the shelves actually went. Hanging from the roof were steel lamps holding chunks of melting ice.

  He moved between the shelves, pausing now and then to look over a book that caught his eye. Many were old, but had been imbued with preserving enchantments. Some of the truly ancient were kept sealed in glass cases, lest they collapse to dust in clumsy hands. Only the librarian had the key to those – not that keys were really a problem for Losara.

  He heard a shuffling and Emepso appeared, clutching a couple of books to his brown robe. The little Arabodedas squinted suspiciously from under thick eyebrows. ‘Master Losara,’ he whined.

  Losara moved past him and Emepso followed nervously at his heels.

  ‘I thought perhaps you were one of those horrid goblin magelings,’ chattered the librarian, wiping a wisp of grey hair from his forehead. ‘No respect for the books, master. And there’s nothing worse than goblin magic.’

  ‘Is someone causing you trouble, Emepso?’

  ‘No, master, no,’ said Emepso quickly. ‘Nothing I can’t handle myself. Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘I’m meeting Heron here. Have you seen her?’

  ‘No, master, no. But I’ll tell her you’re here if I do, master.’

  Losara nodded, continuing on. During his infrequent visits to the library (Heron normally selected the texts for his study), he was always struck by how empty the place was. Only occasionally did he see another person here besides the librarian, and it made him wonder: with so many books and so few readers, how much forgotten knowledge was stowed away on these shelves? Perhaps the key to the destruction of Kainordas was in here somewhere, unread upon a faded scroll.

  He came upon a clearing amongst the shelves. Another tattered rug covered the floor, with some tables and chairs standing atop it. He was surprised to see someone sitting at one of the tables. Her hair fell forward over her face to enclose her book in a prison of black tangled strands. From her mud skin he could tell she was a Mire Pixie, and he guessed her to be just over a pace tall. She wore a ragged green dress, low enough at the back for her crystalline wings to poke out and fold behind her. He remembered seeing her somewhere before. Years ago? In a dream?

  He moved forward, deliberately making some sound as he went so as not to startle her if she looked up suddenly, but his effort had the opposite effect. Her head snapped up and he found himself staring into fearful blue eyes. She breathed in sharply as she realised who he was.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She flinched and he halted abruptly. She rose awkwardly to her feet, banging the chair as her legs pushed it backwards, and stumbled into a curtsy.

  ‘Master,’ she whispered. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know you would need this space.’

  She scrabbled for the book she’d been reading, closing it with a thump. Dust billowed out, causing her to give a little cough. Losara smiled at that, but she was already backing away.

  ‘You needn’t leave,’ he said.

  She moved into the shelves, hugging the oversized book to her breast with both arms. ‘It’s all right, thank you, I . . . I need to speak with the librarian anyway, master,’ she stuttered.

  Before he could say anything else, she’d disappeared amongst the books, her footsteps quickening as she escaped from view. He stood staring after her, sad that he’d frightened her away.

  •

  Later, after their lesson, Losara helped Heron back to their rooms. She clutched his arm tightly as they went, grateful for the support. She was over a hundred years old now, and she looked it.

  ‘I saw a Mire Pixie in the library today,’ said Losara.

  ‘Did you, my dear?’

  ‘I haven’t seen many of them about the castle, besides the counsellors. I thought they preferred Swampwild.’

  ‘They do, my boy, though some serve in the castle. It would have been a girl, I suspect, a few years older than you?’

  ‘Yes, although I didn’t see her face well. She was too busy curtsying.’

  ‘Mmf. Sounds like Lalenda.’

  ‘Lalenda.’ He tried the name out.

  ‘Yes. She’s often found in the library. Battu’s prophet, you know. She sees real things, not vagaries like in shadowdreams. She’s the one who told Battu where you would be born. Poor little thing,’ she added.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘At least when I served under Raker, I could come and go from the castle and experience something of youth! She hasn’t been out since the day she was brought here.’ Heron coughed wetly and spat phlegm onto the floor. ‘No place for a Mire Pixie, that’s for sure.’ She coughed again. ‘No place for an old woman either. Too many stairs.’

  Losara patted her pasty hand. ‘I’m sorry, Heron. I wish for your sake that you’d nothing left to teach me.’

  ‘He should let me die,’ said the old woman angrily. ‘Look at me!’ She pulled away, holding her arms aloft. They were like sticks. ‘I should have died twenty years ago, curse him!’

  Losara stared, seeing the misery in her faded old eyes. He felt pity for her, but she still had knowledge he needed. He took her hand and gently led her on.

  •

  Lalenda shut her door, breathing hard. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was afraid of – there was little rumour around the castle about the blue-haired boy, for he kept mostly to himself. The reputation he had was built mainly on the prophecy – that surely a man who would destroy the light would be powerful and terrible indeed. One thing was certain – he was Battu’s disciple, and if that made him anything like Battu, he was best avoided at all costs.

  Still, as she sat on the bed clutching a book to her chest, she realised how much she had become invisible over the years, and how long it had been since anyone had really seen her, like he had.


  Fourteen / Blade

  Fourteen

  Blade

  Blade

  ‘Whose damned chickens are these?’ Bel demanded of the world in general. At his feet was a wire cage that had evidently fallen and sprung open. Chickens were running all over the street, getting in the way of carts and people.

  ‘Settle down,’ said Hiza, grinning at his companion’s mock affront. ‘They’re only chickens.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said Bel. ‘They are only chickens! And I didn’t spend years honing myself into a well-tuned, one-man fighting explosion in order to have to deal with damned chickens!’ He flexed his arms. ‘See these muscles? Do they look like the muscles of someone who spends his day picking up chickens?’

  ‘Oh no!’ A young woman darted between Bel and Hiza. She looked like a farm girl from one of Kadass’s outlying areas. ‘Excuse me, sirs! I’ll have them all back in their cage in a moment!’

  ‘These chickens,’ Bel said, ‘have been disturbing the peace.’

  Hiza couldn’t help but smirk.

  ‘I’m sorry, sirs,’ the girl said. ‘If you’ll just give me a minute . . .’ She set about grabbing at bundles of feathers and stuffing them, struggling, back into the cage.

  Bel gave Hiza a sideways glance as she pointed her posterior at them. ‘I guess sometimes this work is rewarding,’ he said.

  A chicken flashed past him and he snapped his boot down on its tail. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing the bird to the flustered girl. ‘And next time, ma’am, make sure your cages are secure. Can’t have these birds running about in front of carts and carriages.’ He smiled and pushed back his curly brown hair. ‘This your first time to Market Road?’

  The farm girl seemed relieved by his friendlier manner. ‘Well, no . . . my mother and I come every six months or so.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Bel, leaning casually against the stall. ‘And where’s your mother now?’

  ‘She couldn’t make it this time. She’s in bed with a head cold.’

  Bel’s face became a picture of concern. ‘What a pity.’

  Hiza rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, Muscles,’ he said, grabbing Bel to pull him away. ‘We can’t stand around all day wasting our time on damned chickens, can we?’

  •

  The air of Kadass was thick and sluggish, muddying the constant murmur of activity – the shriek of children at play, the tapping of a blacksmith’s hammer, the call of a street vendor, the music of a minstrel. There were parks and lakes where people swam, splashing and laughing. Traffic moved steadily along streets of orange stone between the city’s neatly constructed buildings. On Market Road, the heat did nothing to slow the exchange of coin from hand to sweaty hand.

  Bel and Hiza wandered the rows of stalls. At eighteen they were both new blades, seeing out their compulsory two years of service as peacekeepers. While many of Bel’s friends had been posted elsewhere in Kainordas, he and Hiza had been assigned to Kadass. He would have preferred it if the choice had been his, instead of the precaution of keeping him safe behind the wards . . . but it wasn’t so bad. Girls liked the uniform, and he enjoyed being able to swing his sword around sometimes. At least Naphur had made sure one of his friends remained with him. Hiza didn’t realise there was a reason for their posting, as Corlas and Fahren had always advised Bel to keep his true identity a secret, unless he wanted to be treated very differently by everyone. Sometimes he wondered why he shouldn’t be treated differently. Why shouldn’t people know that their hero walked amongst them? At any rate, he was sure he wouldn’t remain a simple blade for long. During training he had been a favoured student, and not just because his father was the great Corlas Corinas. Time and again he’d proved himself to be a master of weaponry and a charismatic leader. He didn’t intend for that to be any different out here in the real world.

  Somewhere, back the way they had come, a commotion broke out.

  ‘If that’s those chickens again . . .’ said Bel.

  ‘Thief!’ someone shouted. ‘Thief!’

  The blades glanced at each other, then simultaneously broke into a run. It was a jeweller with a display of gaudy wares who was doing the shouting.

  ‘Where’d they go?’ Bel called to her.

  ‘There!’ she shouted. ‘By the fountain!’

  Ahead, a black-haired man was dodging between groups of pedestrians. Bel and Hiza pelted after him, calling out for people to stand aside. The thief tore down a side street. As they followed, a loose cobblestone shot out from underneath Hiza’s foot and his ankle twisted with an audible snap. Bel skidded to a halt as Hiza cursed loudly.

  ‘Keep going!’ he muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Don’t let him get away!’ Bel hesitated a moment, then started running again. ‘By Arkus’s great orange arse, this hurts!’ shouted Hiza, and Bel knew the words were meant to spur him on, not bring him back.

  The thief had disappeared, but Bel spotted a flight of steps up the back of a building with an open doorway at the top. From somewhere inside came the sound of glass smashing. He bounded up the stairs and through the door, into a low-roofed room full of crates. He guessed it was some kind of storage area for the tavern beneath. At the far end light came in through dusty windows, one of which was broken. Bel made his way between the crates, coming to the shattered window and poking his head through just in time to see a foot disappearing up onto the roof. He kicked out the remaining glass and clambered through the window, reaching up to grasp the edge of the roof. With a mighty heave he pulled himself up, flinging a leg over for purchase. On the roof, he took a moment to find his balance on the tiles then made for the peak. He saw the thief below him: a ratty little man with a gemstone pendant around his neck.

  ‘Stay right there!’ called Bel.

  The thief screwed up his face in response, then stepped off the roof. Bel heard him land on wood and realised he’d jumped back down onto the stairs they’d both come up. He cursed and followed, coming down on the stairs as the thief was running up the alley. A few more paces and he would be back amongst the crowds, where he would easily disappear.

  If I’m to bring down Fenvarrow, thought Bel, I should be able to handle one thief. He pulled out his boot knife and sent it flashing towards the thief, now some thirty paces away. It thudded into the man’s thigh, bringing him down heavily. Bel trotted down the stairs, chuckling. I’m impressive, no doubt about it. How many could make a shot like that?

  When he arrived, the thief was worming around on the ground, which made it difficult to retrieve the knife. ‘Keep still, you rat-haired turd,’ muttered Bel, cuffing the man over the head. He grabbed the knife and pulled it free, wiping the blade on the thief’s shirt before sliding it back into his boot. He grabbed the little man by the collar and dragged him, protesting, back down the alley to Hiza. Hiza was propped up against a wall, being helped by a young couple who’d seen him fall. Apart from being pale, he contained his pain well. Bel dumped the thief unceremoniously on the cobblestones before him.

  ‘How is it?’ he asked.

  Hiza winced. ‘Broken, I think. Had worse as a boy, when at least I had gangly limbs to blame for such clumsiness.’

  ‘You hear that, rat?’ said Bel to the thief. ‘My partner’s injured because of you.’ He kicked the thief in the ribs and the little man whimpered.

  ‘Don’t hurt me, sir! I ain’t goin’ nowhere!’

  ‘How correct you are,’ said Bel. He turned to the couple, who were looking on nervously, and shook his head. ‘Some people just have to ruin it for the rest of us. Thanks for helping my partner.’ He produced a gold coin from a leather purse. ‘Take this, from Kainordas. If you would hurry and find a rider for us, you may tell them Bel Corinas said you’re to have the same again.’

  ‘Oh, no need to pay us, sir,’ said the woman. ‘We couldn’t just leave your friend lying there.’


  ‘Aye,’ said the man. ‘And we’ll go and find a rider for you right away.’

  ‘No, do take it,’ said Bel, grasping the man’s hand and pressing the coin into it. ‘It isn’t payment – it’s thanks. Anyway, the Throne has plenty more.’ He winked at the couple, who smiled. ‘Please tell the rider we’ll need a cart.’

  The couple departed. Bel kneeled and took the pendant from around the thief’s neck. He tossed it to Hiza.

  ‘Pretty,’ said Hiza, turning it in his hands.

  ‘Not worth the trouble,’ said Bel. ‘Probably dyed glass.’ Reaching down, he ripped cloth from the thief’s shirt.

  ‘Whatcha doin’ now?’ whined the thief.

  ‘Trying to stop you bleeding, rat,’ said Bel. ‘Though Arkus knows why I’d be bothered.’

  He wrapped the strip of cloth around the wound and pulled the knot tight. Again the thief cried out in pain, sickening Bel with how weak he was.

  ‘Steady there,’ said Hiza.

  The fire faded from Bel’s eyes and he shrugged. ‘It has to be tight,’ he said. ‘To stop the flow.’

  •

  Bel sat alone in the Wayward Dog, staring into his mug. Normally he’d be having a drink with Hiza at the end of their shift, but Hiza would be in the Hospital of Arkus by now. At least that meant he had a friend in the Halls again. When he’d been assigned to Kadass, Hiza had moved his lodgings into the city. Bel, however, found himself ordered to remain in the barracks, where he was safer. He missed his old friends. There was still Hiza, but the rest of the gang had gone. The ring had left the ring leader and the Halls were much duller for it.

  Sometimes he joined Corlas in teaching the younger students, where his sense of fun and fairness made him a popular addition to the class. The fairness came because he was conscious of the difference between him and his peers. Often he deliberately reined in his skill, having learned that no one liked to be outshone all the time. He knew he could beat them all anyway. Despite such distractions, he was beginning to feel trapped behind the ward stones, and had told Corlas as much. Corlas had said he understood better than Bel would ever know – whatever that meant – but he hadn’t done anything about it.