Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy)

by Sam Bowring

  As Corlas sent soldiers to defend the area, he heard ‘Commander!’ behind him. It was the gerent, white as a ghost and clutching a bloody bandage to his side. A worried healer stood next to him and six of his personal guards, who looked ready to support him should he stumble. Corlas reported quickly to Ateppa as another volley of fireballs plummeted around them, cracking buildings and spitting fire.

  ‘All right, Corlas,’ the gerent said. ‘You take the walls. I’ll see to the breach.’

  Corlas jogged towards a stairway as, behind him, the gerent began to yell instructions. The situation was dire – without mages they were almost defenceless against any magic thrown at them. He glanced across the town as he bounded up the stairs and received a small boost of hope. The fireballs, while they damaged buildings, had not resulted in as many casualties as the enemy no doubt hoped. The fires did not spread well in the dry, stony town, so apart from those caught directly in a fireball’s path, or who had been standing nearby as the tar flew out, all remained unharmed.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, he saw a bow gesturing upwards. High in the sky, out of arrow range, clusters of Graka were flying. Corlas squinted to see what they carried – it looked like large cauldrons between groups of four. As the first group moved above the fort, they tipped their cauldron and liquid spilled downwards, glinting crystal in the sun’s rays. It hit the ground and soldiers screamed. Corlas saw smoke rising from thrashing bodies as bones showed through ruined flesh.

  ‘Acid,’ he muttered to himself.

  Below, the gerent was ordering soldiers to stay under whatever cover they could find. Corlas saw a group run into a house, narrowly avoiding an acid downpour. A moment later a flaming ball smashed through the roof. A foetid stench rose into the air to accompany the screams.

  Fighting broke out as Arabodedas and Vorthargs reached the breach. Kainordan soldiers held them back easily, as the opening was only wide enough for seven or eight to get through at a time. Only a few Vorthargs managed to leap past the defence on their powerful hind legs. Like their smaller frog cousins, the mottled Vorthargs were able to jump long distances and cling to the sides of buildings. Their mouths were wide like those of frogs, though they had pudgy noses, ears like dried apricots and piggy eyes. More troublesome were their burning spit and large upward-curving tusks. Corlas saw a Vortharg spring onto a soldier, hang on with the slimy pads of its feet, and bite down on his head. Being so outnumbered, however, any Vorthargs past the line were quickly felled.

  Above, the Graka were leaving with their empty cauldrons, no doubt to get another load. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a swarm of Zyvanix,’ Corlas growled.

  A second group of Arabodedas and Vorthargs detached from the army. Another volley of fireballs shot up into the air. The floor beneath Corlas shook as some smashed against the upper walls, one landing directly on a group of bows. As the Arabodedas and Vorthargs drew close, Corlas saw another three mages disengage from the group.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ he said, and shouted, ‘All bows, target the mages!’

  Shouts came from taskmasters passing the order along the line, and the barrage of arrows pouring down shifted to concentrate on the three mages. As one began to summon energy, the other two found themselves facing an impossible number of arrows. Frantically they cast their deflection spells, but as the First Mage raised his hands to unleash a bolt, he fell screaming with an arrow in his heart. The bolt flew off randomly, hitting a place high up the walls without punching through. The other mages retreated.

  Arabodedas and Vorthargs were again nearing the breach. ‘Target the Vorthargs first!’ Corlas shouted, for the Arabodedas were more easily held back. He frowned at these ground attacks, which were hardly effective. With a breach so small, and so many archers on the walls, each wave met death quickly. It didn’t make sense.

  In the distance he saw Graka taking off again. He squinted more closely at the Fenvarrow army. Minions of the dark lord ran here and there, attending to the catapults and large vats, which, Corlas guessed, contained the deadly acid. A good proportion of the army seemed to be focused on keeping the aerial attacks going, while the waves of ground attackers seemed almost a distraction. Suddenly Corlas knew what needed to be done. As long as they stayed within the fort, the Shadowdreamer could pelt down death from the skies. The fort had become a trap and they needed to get out.

  He ran back down the stairs, at the bottom carefully avoiding ground where acid still smoked. At the breach he found a phalanx commander organising the defence.

  ‘Where is the gerent?’ he demanded.

  ‘In the main square.’

  Corlas covered the distance as quickly as he could. In the main square he found Ateppa on a stretcher, face drained of colour and set in a grimace of pain, blood trickling from his lips. Ignoring the healer’s pleas, he was sitting up to shout orders. Troops had scattered so as not to provide large targets for the aerial attacks, and everyone looked edgy. There were more than enough soldiers at the breach to take care of the small waves of attackers, so a large portion of the fort’s force was standing idle and useless.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ shouted Ateppa as he caught sight of Corlas. ‘Get back to the walls!’

  ‘Gerent Ateppa!’ puffed Corlas. ‘We must leave the fort!’

  Soldiers nearby were paying attention.

  ‘What?’ said Ateppa. ‘Are you mad?’

  ‘If we stay,’ replied Corlas, ‘we will surely be defeated. Without mages to protect us, we cannot withstand these aerial attacks!’

  ‘You talk of suicide!’ said Ateppa. ‘They cannot pelt us forever. We must hold, and wait for their main attack. They will not take us by ground!’

  ‘This is their main attack, gerent!’ said Corlas, flinching as a fireball slammed into a nearby building. ‘We must leave the fort!’

  ‘Get back to the walls!’ screamed Ateppa, his ghostly pallor flushing red for a moment. ‘Do as I command!’ He slumped back onto the stretcher, moaning with pain.

  Corlas stared hard at his superior. He needed to act, else the gerent was going to sentence them all to doom. Though it pained him greatly, he reached a decision quickly and turned to the gerent’s personal guards.

  ‘You blades take the gerent to his quarters and see to his safety. I am taking full command.’

  ‘What?’ screamed Ateppa. ‘You dare to . . .’

  ‘You are wounded, sir,’ said Corlas loudly. ‘You have lost too much blood and are not thinking clearly. If we are to win this battle,’ he turned to the soldiers surrounding, ‘we must fight. Soldiers – do you wish to be cooked here like crabs in a pot? Or shall we take this battle into our own hands? Shall we give the Shadowdreamer more than he bargains for?’

  A chorus of assent went up. Already the soldiers had seen too much carnage as they stood powerless to stop it.

  ‘You’re relieved of duty, commander!’ shouted the enraged Ateppa. ‘Return to your quarters!’

  Corlas stood, hands on hips, staring hard at the gerent’s guards. ‘We are dead if we stay,’ he said.

  One of the guards, an older man with a weathered face, looked from Corlas to Ateppa. Ateppa was writhing angrily on his stretcher, trying to stand up. The guard nodded slowly. ‘Come, blades,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the gerent to safety.’

  Two men picked up the stretcher as the gerent shouted curses and protests and carried him from the main square. Corlas immediately sought out the officers in the crowd.

  ‘Phalanx commanders, cerepans – I want all troops assembled at the portcullis before the next Graka strike.’ He glanced around at the tense faces. ‘We’re abandoning the fort.’

  •

  Phalanx commanders and cerepans rode up and down the lines trying to organise troops of bows, blades and riders. The fort had only one phalanx of riders – that was, six troops – and besides this there we
re only horses for the officers. Corlas secured his own broad-backed war horse to cover ground more quickly. Armourers towed carts to distribute shields, armour and weapons, while soldiers at the gate stood ready to raise the portcullis. Corlas didn’t want to give the enemy any early warning that they intended to leave the fort, so the portcullis would be left shut until the last moment possible. Behind them, fireballs thundered down on the nearly deserted town. Corlas glanced anxiously at the sky, knowing the Graka would be above them any minute. If soldiers were caught grouped together in the same place, the casualties would be devastating.

  He reached a decision. The time was now.

  ‘Raise the portcullis!’ he commanded. ‘Move out the troops!’

  Taskmasters around him took up the call.

  ‘Commander!’ came a voice behind him, and he turned to see a burly man with a rough beard and dirty clothes. He rested a pickaxe over his shoulder, and behind him stood a hundred similar-looking men. Corlas recognised him as Brindle, the head miner.

  ‘What is it, Brindle?’

  ‘We will not continue in the mine while the very fort falls around us. Today we hew flesh, not rock.’

  Corlas nodded. ‘Very well. Find an armourer, or use your pickaxes if you will. Move it out, Brindle.’

  ‘Right y’are, sir!’ said Brindle fiercely.

  At the gate, troops were streaming out and down the hill. Corlas glanced at the sky. The Graka should have been above them by now, but for some reason they seemed to be holding back. Then he saw why – the clear blue sky was no longer clear. High above, small pinpricks had appeared above the fort. As Corlas watched he saw them expanding outwards and his dread of magic grew strong. They were dark blue vortexes and, though small and distant, were as ominous as a knife glinting in the dark.

  ‘Move it out!’ he bellowed. ‘Move it out!’ The horse beneath him whinnied as he gave it a kick in the ribs, driving it along the lines of waiting soldiers. ‘Move it out, soldiers! Magic they may have, but even a mage can learn the pain of steel! Target their mages! Make them pay for this! Make them learn what Kainordan soldiers are made of! Move it out!’

  He raised his sword to the air, hollering war cries and driving soldiers before him. They spilled out through both the gate and the breach, heartened by the righteous rage of their commander.

  Above, Corlas heard the warning crackle of magic approaching. Looking up, he saw lines of blue energy streaming down from the vortexes, straight and fast. As they slammed into the fort’s centre, the ground shook. Where they hit, they obliterated, leaving deep craters in the ground and sending out shock waves that knocked flying anything in their path.

  In the sky above, the vortexes faded. Corlas breathed out thanks to Arkus. The mages had obviously targeted the area where the Graka would have last reported the majority of soldiers to be gathered. As it turned out, the energy streams had destroyed a now mostly unpopulated section of the town. Corlas shuddered at how devastating the attack would have been had they not moved. He didn’t know much about magic, but he knew that what he’d just seen would require a large amount of power, possibly many mages working together to create just one of those vortex things; and cloaking their army as they’d approached would have taken its toll as well. If Battu was tiring his mages, perhaps they had a chance.

  As he rode from the fort, he saw the Graka flapping slowly towards his army, which was assembling again at the bottom of the hill. Corlas urged his mare down the slope and found more order than he had hoped for. In the distance he could see the Fenvarrow army milling about, preparing for a ground attack they hadn’t expected. He came to a halt in front of the officers, many of whom met his gaze with fearful eyes. Glancing at the sky, he guessed they had about a minute until the Graka could bomb their present position.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I want to drive pronged attacks into their lines. If we are all mixed in together, their air attacks will be useless and their mages won’t be able to target groups of us as easily. If you see a chance to take out a mage, take it, but not at too high a cost. We have to maintain our numbers.’

  ‘The bows, commander?’

  ‘They cannot attack from afar, they will only be killed from the air. They will be the heart of every prong we drive into their territory. Get them in and defend them.’ He met each of his officers in the eye. ‘There is no time for anything further. May the light be with us all. Do not despair . . .’ He seemed to fumble for words, but then his eyes shone with strength. ‘Do not despair,’ he said.

  He waited until the officers had returned to their troops, then drew his sword and spun it in his grip.

  ‘Charge!’

  •

  Across grey, flat land the soldiers charged, roaring defiance at the black mass before them. Blades ran in groups around the bows, while the riders moved ahead with long spears lowered. The Graka let their acid fall, but most of the army passed under it unscathed, with only a few of the stragglers falling. Corlas found himself galloping past the miners, their grimy faces grim.

  As they drew closer, arrows began to fall around them, but the dark lord had been complacent. Wrapped up in his plans for assassinations, aerial and magical assaults, he had failed to give proper thought to an unexpected ground war. While he had the numbers, his soldiers were not particularly well organised, and his archers were only now arriving behind the front lines. Kainordan bows returned fire as they ran, and screams rang out on both sides. Then came a clash of steel as blades drove attacks against the frontlines, wedging themselves into enemy territory. Within a few minutes, the Kainordan army was entrenched amongst those of the shadow.

  Corlas rode tall, his eyes blazing with battle fury. Blood pumped hot in his veins and he whooped as he hacked and hewed from his horse. A joyous rage filled his heart and the very air around him seemed charged with energy. A Vortharg leaped at him only to fall away howling, guts spilling from its stomach. A dagger clattered against his shield and a moment later the Arabodedas who’d thrown it added his blood to the river that flowed from Corlas’s sword. A Graka swooped out of the sky with claws extended, straight into Corlas’s outstretched blade. The commander’s arms bulged as he lifted the impaled Graka in the air, ignoring its scrabbling claws as it tried to free itself. He gave a roar as he flung it into a mass of Arabodedas, knocking some from their feet.

  The display of strength lifted the spirits of those around him and they fought on with new ferocity. Corlas roared again and galloped through the Arabodedas, his war horse crushing skulls beneath its heavy hooves. He shouted encouragement as he passed his soldiers, stirring up his troops wherever he found them. Time seemed to slow, and he was able to avoid attacks on him easily with adrenaline-fuelled perception.

  Scattered mages caught in the fray sent magic bolts at Kainordan soldiers, but fell as bows fired arrows in return. Other mages hung back from the fighting, but were unable to effectively target the enemy while it was so mixed up with their own forces. The bows turned their attention to the Graka, who had abandoned their cauldrons to fly low over the battle with spears. Their stony skin deflected most arrows, but well-placed ones sent the creatures wheeling towards the ground. Corlas ripped a crossbow from a dying Arabodedas and shot it at a Graka, which left behind a red mist in the air. Corlas put the crossbow, which still had one bolt left, onto his belt.

  ‘See how easily cowards die!’ he bellowed, and soldiers around him echoed the chant.

  He spotted a group of Black Goblins surrounding a troop of his soldiers, closing in quickly and viciously. He hadn’t seen many goblins up to this point – they seemed to be blessedly scarce – but now his soldiers fell screaming before their formidably fast blades.

  ‘Trample the goblins!’ he hollered at a nearby group of riders.

  He himself bore down on them too, and many fell beneath hooves and blades. Soon the ground was rich with mashed black flesh.

/>   Despite the tenacity with which his soldiers fought, Corlas could see they were failing in many places. Vorthargs spat poison into the faces of defending blades, then leaped over them to gore the bows they protected. Riders made easy targets for them too, standing taller than the rest, and Corlas had seen more than one go down screaming with a Vortharg on their back. The Arabodedas were skilled sword-wielders, but fortunately the blades had an advantage over their pale counterparts – many carried weapons or armour that contained shine. While the material was too precious to make entire suits on such a scale, a thin strip of shine reinforcing the right places could save a life again and again.

  Corlas continued to stampede and stir his troops, but though they fought with all their hearts, his soldiers were being felled too quickly. With a snarl of rage he wheeled around, searching for some way to turn the battle. What he saw heading towards him made him throw himself off his horse with all his might. He heard a wet explosion, and chunks of steaming horse meat thudded down around him. He rolled to his feet, staring in the direction from which the huge bolt of energy had come.

  On a slight rise, barely fifty paces away, stood the cause of all this bloodshed. Clothed in black, the folds of his cloak swirling about him, his recessed eyes turning this way and that over the battlefield, was the Shadowdreamer himself. Corlas hadn’t realised how deeply they had driven into the shadow army. Too far, it seemed, which was why the tide was turning against them. He saw Battu gesture at him while speaking to a group of Black Goblins – an elite guard, by the look of them. Corlas had managed to bring himself to the Shadowdreamer’s attention and the goblins would be coming for him.

  ‘To me!’ he shouted as the Blacks began to slip towards him through the battle. ‘To me!’ Nearby soldiers hacked their way towards him.

  ‘Commander!’ came the voice of a tall man on horseback. ‘Troop Leader Murcoh at your service!’

  ‘How many in your troop?’ asked Corlas.

  ‘Six remaining, sir! I think!’