Storm Holt (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 3)

by A. Evermore

  ‘Asaph.’ The wizard reached to shake his hand. ‘In the short time I’ve been with Coronos, he spent his time talking mostly about you.’

  Asaph shook his hand and smiled back at the man. ‘Only good things I hope.’

  Freydel laughed, ‘Of course, and I’m sure there is so much more to tell.’

  ‘How is Arla?’ Issa blurted. ‘Coronos told me she is sick.’

  Freydel sighed and worry creased his brow. ‘She’s not getting better as we’d hoped. If anything she has fallen into a fever. Luckily Navarr’s healers are excellent, so she is in the best hands.’

  ‘I should see her, maybe I can help.’ Issa began to rise, but Freydel put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘No, you need to rest too, and besides Arla has just fallen asleep. You can see her in the morning.’

  Issa relaxed at that, and began to question him about everything that had happened since they’d last seen each other. Asaph was interested to begin with. It was exciting hearing about what a wizard got up to, and how he’d used magic to call the Wizard’s Circle only to become trapped in the astral planes. The Kuapoh talked about the dimension higher than their current one. But as exciting as it was he soon found himself drifting.

  He poured another glass of wine hoping it would perk him up, and was just thankful that everyone was busy with their own conversations without needing to converse with him. The wine had the opposite effect and made him sleepier, before long he found his eyes beginning to shut of their own accord.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Asaph said and stood. ‘I need to sleep, I can barely keep my eyes open.’

  He said goodnight and left them chatting. With a sigh of relief he closed the door to his own large, but blessedly quiet room. The four-poster bed was huge and the mahogany desk and wardrobe so big it must have taken ten men to carry them in here. He sat on the lavish velvet-covered bed, and barely got his boots off before he sank back and fell asleep.

  Not long after, Freydel said goodnight to a yawning Issa and Navarr - the king graciously offered to escort her to her room. Freydel filled up his and Coronos’ wine glasses, and sat back down, the firelight made the shadows dance in the room. He glanced at Coronos. Though he looked tired and it was late, the wine had perked him up, and he insisted on talking for a little longer. So they sat and talked non-stop of pretty much everything that had happened since Coronos had fled from Drax with the heir to the throne in his arms.

  ‘It is my fervent hope,’ Coronos said finally. ‘To see Asaph take back the kingdom of Drax, but such dreams may never come to pass, and yet still we must hope and still we must dream. I’ve lived a long life - longer than my father’s - and I feel Feygriene calling to me as my days dwindle. At least I saw Asaph to manhood, and I’m glad he’s found his love, but I fear their days in this uncertain world will be hard and full of sorrow. What a terrible future the young of Maioria now face.’ Coronos shook his head.

  ‘Asaph is lucky, under the circumstances, that he has you to look after him. A loving and exemplary father,’ Freydel smiled, trying to add a positive note to the conversation. ‘But tell me, what do you think of Issa? I’ve worried for her safety ever since she left Celenian shores.’ Shores now lost forever beneath the sea, Freydel sighed aloud as a pang of pain hit him.

  ‘When I first met her in the desolation of the Shadowlands, I did not think she would live through the hour,’ Coronos said. ‘She was like a wraith - all skin and bone and deathly pale. And yet even then I felt a strange magic about her. Strange in a good way, but a rare magic that makes you stop and think. Now she has recovered she is strong, in magic and in body. Already she can wield a sword better than I could at her age.’

  Freydel raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘I had no idea such things would interest her.’

  Coronos nodded. ‘She’s very determined and high-spirited. Though I don’t think she was always so driven,’ his face darkened. ‘Baelthrom and his horde have taken so much from us, they’ve made us all violent and vengeful. It’s only in the little things… It’s probably nothing to worry about, but I think she is driven by revenge. Well, of course she is, so is Asaph and so am I. But it seems, more so since Celene, that her heart has hardened a little, the joy in her now dampened and shaded with seriousness. It’s not how a young woman should be.’

  ‘She grieves, we all grieve, for Celene, for Ely, for her home and her people,’ Freydel said. He had trouble pushing memories of Celene away now he was tired.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. My concern is that she dwells upon revenge. Yearns for it. Such yearning can become poisonous,’ Coronos said.

  ‘That too is true. I’ve not seen her since she left Celene to face Keteth,’ Freydel replied. ‘I shall see how she is, and consider all you have said. What are your thoughts on the Storm Holt? Do you think she should enter it?’

  ‘No, I would not wish anyone to enter it. Especially not a woman when so many have… gone,’ Coronos said. Freydel felt relieved, at least he wasn’t alone in his feelings. Coronos continued. ‘As you say, she’s proved herself already against Keteth and Baelthrom’s abominations. But in saying that, should she decide to enter, we should not fear. If she fails, goddess forbid it, then no wizard will ever again pass.’

  Freydel nodded and finished the last of his wine. ‘I don’t want her to enter at all, whatever the cost. But I’ve a feeling she will not shy away from this. If she is invited then I think she will choose to enter, and none can deny her. I will not invite her, but that is my wish, and my guilt agreeing to send her to Keteth.’

  ‘Your wishes are honourable, Freydel, don’t be guilty. I would only advise that if she does choose to enter, then she should do so when the blue moon is here and full. Do you know when that might be?’

  ‘No, there have been too few moons for me to accurately chart its progress,’ Freydel said. ‘And now my study and its beautiful star gazing roof is gone, it looks like I won’t be able to. But that moon, when it rises, it rises full and heavy and for a night only. Maybe Luren could dig out Grenahyme’s model of our moons and nearest stars. Or maybe Domenon has something on the subject in that library of his that he’s managed to keep secret from us. From my very rough calculations I counted at most twelve days between first rise and the next. Longer has passed since it last rose, so its orbit is not predictable to us yet.

  ‘Hmm, that aside, does Zanufey’s moon even rise in the Murk? I would think it doesn’t. No moon of ours has ever risen in the Murk, let alone the Pit.’ Freydel lost himself in thought for a moment, trying to reason it through, but tiredness gnawed at him. ‘Bah my brain is too tired and full of wine to think clearly now.

  ‘Mine too, let’s get some rest.’ Coronos winced as he stood up. ‘My oh my, I’m saddle sore all over.’

  ‘Hah. A good night’s sleep will help. Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll call the Wizard’s Circle again.’ Freydel stood up as well. ‘We’ll bring Issa to the Circle. When she has left we’ll vote on whether to invite her to the Storm Holt and go from there. Tell her not to leave the castle, I know how inquisitive she is.’ Coronos laughed and nodded.

  Freydel showed Coronos to his room, and then eagerly retired to his own. King Navarr had kindly given him a room at the end of the quiet west wing. It was a turret room, all round and cosy just like his study on Celene. But he sorely missed his stargazing window, and without all his maps and scrolls the room felt horribly stark.

  He got into his bed clothes that the maids had given him, but still felt hot and sweaty. He flung open one of the windows and pulled up a chair to sit in the cool night breeze. Breathing in the smell of the forest beyond the city walls, he considered Coronos’ thoughts on Issa. Now he thought about it, the old Draxian was right, in a way. Issa seemed far stronger and confident than when he’d last seen her. She was colder and harder, as if a resolve burned within her. He wondered if the girl he had saved on the shores of Celene was being eroded away with grief and revenge.

  He closed his eyes and imagined he was back i
n his study in Castle Elune. Immediately he recalled his last moments with Ely and the grief welled up.

  “I doubt very much that the High Priestess cares at all whether Issa lives. In fact I should think she’d prefer her dead,” Ely’s words rang clearly in his head. “…I’m suspicious that this was all a set up to destroy Issa.”

  ‘Oh Ely, knowing what I know now… I think you were right,’ Freydel breathed. ‘I’m so sorry…’ Unshed tears forced his eyes open. He blinked them back, blew out the lantern, and let darkness fill the room. He could see the stars outside better without the light. They twinkled and shone, forever sending their light down to Maioria.

  For a while he fought back the sorrow, trying to think of nothing else other than the endless stars out there - but it was a battle his old, tired and wine-filled mind could not win. Eventually the tears won.

  Chapter 28

  The Soul Knows

  THE vision of destruction that greeted Marakon as he walked through the town in the growing light of dawn was one he had seen many times before. But this time it was the town in which his wife and children lived.

  ‘Rasia,’ he called out.

  His voice echoed off half destroyed buildings and blackened walls. Burnt bodies littered the streets, and it took an enormous effort to force himself to look at them without emotion. He had to see if they were Rasia or his boys.

  He came to a corpse, half crushed under a fallen wall. There was no hope of recognising it or any of the dead, they were so burnt they no longer looked human. Smoke still flowed from the smouldering ruins, and every so often caught the back of his throat causing a fit of coughing.

  ‘Rasia,’ he choked out louder, but there was no answer. He’d yet to see anyone alive.

  He took a narrow street leading back up the hill to his road. He knew what he would find, so when he saw the crumbled mess that was his and Rasia’s home, he wasn’t surprised. The dragon had torched it good last night. He dared to look in the hot ash for any signs of his wife and children, but there was none. She wouldn’t have hidden, or stayed in a burning house. She would have fought and sent the children running. Just like he’d sent the children into the woods.

  ‘Rasia,’ he shouted into the desolation. Only the wind answered his call, whistling through the broken stone. He turned from his destroyed house and led his horse into town towards the port.

  ‘Hylion, Hally,’ he called out the names of his knights as he walked, but again there was no answer. There had to be someone alive. He refused to think that his knights had been killed. In the distance he heard coughing. He strode towards it. In the smoke a figure moved.

  ‘Marakon?’ a women called out.

  ‘Oria.’ He made his way over to her. Her plaid fair hair was all a mess, and her face was smeared with blood and dirt, making him wonder how he must look.

  ‘Thank the goddess, Marakon.’ They embraced in relief.

  ‘Where are the others?’ he asked, stepping back.

  ‘We’ve made a hospital down in the old warehouses by the harbour. The only buildings that are still standing whole. There aren’t many survivors,’ she said.

  ‘Many fled, they will return,’ Marakon said.

  ‘We’re missing some knights,’ she said, fear in her eyes.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Drenden, Hally, Meyer and Konnen. Have you seen them?’

  Marakon shook his head and pursed his lips. ‘They may have run helping the others.’

  Oria looked away, pain in her eyes. ‘They took Hally. Ghenath saw her captured. Ironbeard saw Drenden. Drenden was with Meyer, they had trouble closing the east port gate, then the dragons came. Ironbeard was nearly captured himself. Konnen is missing, maybe he will return…’ the hopelessness was clear in her voice.

  Marakon looked to the sea in the distance, as if hoping to see them there. But there were no ships, the enemy was long gone. He knew with dreadful certainty that there was no hope for them. They might not be able to die but they could certainly be enslaved.

  Marakon gripped Oria’s shoulders and looked into her green eyes. ‘Then they are gone.’ The hope that had been there dimmed and instead her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip and dropped his gaze. ‘Let’s pray they take their own lives before they are… changed,’ he said grimly. Has all that I’ve done been for nothing? Have I brought them back from the Drowning Wastes only to be enslaved again?

  ‘We, the Knights of the Raven, must never become separated from each other again. We must fight this enemy as one. We cannot be captured by those bastards. I couldn’t find my wife or children, but I haven’t stopped searching yet.’ Marakon let go of her shoulders.

  ‘Come to the hospital, they might be among the wounded,’ Oria said, linking her arm through his.

  Marakon let Oria lead him and his horse through the rubble-filled streets down to the harbour. He was in a daze, partly from the need for food, partly from battle exhaustion, but mostly faced with numbing fear and worry for his wife and children.

  The old warehouses were smaller than the newer ones that had stood to their right, but the old ones were made of solid stone, and unlike their inferior part-wooden replacements they had withstood time and the attacks of Dread Dragons. He peered inside. It was cool and dimly lit by as many candles and lanterns as could be salvaged. There were windows, but these were covered in moss and dust from age and lack of use.

  The warehouses were filled with people, young and old, injured and walking. Those that were well enough were tending the wounded. Moans of pain and hushed voices filled the air. A few people had sheets of blankets drawn up over their faces. These were quietly being carried away through a door at the back of the room that led into the next warehouse.

  ‘Only days ago a similar scene was before me,’ Marakon whispered, remembering the Elder’s house filled with wounded Gurlanka.

  ‘Come,’ Oria retook his arm when he hesitated, and led him further into the building.

  He darted his eyes over the women tending the wounded. No one had the copper curls or the cherub-like smiling face that matched his Rasia. Oria led him through the half of the room where the injured women were. Some had terrible wounds, and blood soaked the sheets that covered them. He tried to keep his face a mask though he knew they would not see the day through. Beyond the more seriously wounded were those sleeping. His eyes rested on a woman whose copper curls flowed over the pillow, her face was turned away.

  ‘Rasia,’ he gasped and ran to her.

  She shifted at his voice and as he looked down into her pallid face she opened her eyes.

  ‘Marakon?’ she blinked, her eyes were big and brown just as he remembered them, but there was pain in them, and deep circles under them.

  ‘Yes, it’s me. I’m here,’ he took her cold hand when she raised it and kissed it tenderly.

  ‘Marakon,’ she breathed and began to cry. She repeated his name many times. He bent down and hugged her gently, trying and failing to stop the tears flood from his own eyes. ‘I missed you so much. You came back to me. Don’t leave me again.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised and stood up, stroking her hair back from her face.

  ‘I tried to…’ she said the last part so quietly he couldn’t hear her. Her lips were blue and she looked so weak. Her eyes fluttered and he thought she was going to fall back asleep.

  ‘Tried to what, Rasia?’ he bent closer.

  ‘Tried to save them,’ tears ran down her cheeks. Marakon gripped her hand and held his breath.

  ‘They came for them. They didn’t want me, but I fought them. There were eight of them and two of us. I killed two before they struck me down. We chased after them, but it was too late. A building collapsed on me. I made him leave me and take a horse to chase them down. They took our boys, Marakon,’ she trailed off into weak sobs.

  Marakon gripped her hand and hung his head. ‘My children are gone,’ he breathed. His utter hatred of the enemy rose to poisonous levels. Rasia began to cough - a cough that shook her wh
ole body, forcing his attention back to the present.

  ‘Rest, Rasia,’ he soothed, but her coughing only got worse. ‘Do you want some water?’ Whether she nodded or shook her head he couldn’t be sure. He tried to hold her as the coughs racked her body. Blood patched on the sheets above her stomach where she’d been wounded. Healer women hurried over and helped her sit. Blood flecked her lips and the nurses wiped it away as best they could, glancing at each other with concern. He stood their horrified and useless as they helped Rasia drink water, and laid her back down to sleep.

  Marakon stayed by her side for hours, listening to the rattling of her breath, opening himself to the blessed numbness of grief that stole over his weary body. Everything he did in his life was a failure. His curse was not over, his life was still filled with misery.

  About mid-day Rasia came round again, and she seemed stronger than before. There was a little more colour in her cheeks, and her lips were more pink than grey. She smiled at him, her brown eyes warmed his soul, just like they always used to when they awoke together in the morning. At least he still had his Rasia. He returned the smile and for a moment he felt the shadows inside draw back into the darkness. He took her hand and held it against his cheek.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘I’m not the one in a sick bed.’

  ‘True,’ she smiled. ‘But you should get some food and rest. I’ll be fine right here. Has he returned yet?’ she asked faintly, as if speaking exhausted her.

  ‘Has who returned?’ he asked, but she seemed to be drifting. Did she mean the children or had she found herself a new lover? He couldn’t bear to think the last. ‘Rasia, who fought with you to save the children?’