Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  He made his way to the fort armoury, a long flat building. The stop wasn’t part of his task, but fortunately he could combine Battu’s orders with his own purposes. Inside the armoury was a storeroom where Jacix, the head armourer, kept all the choicest weapons. Tyrellan surveyed the racks of deadly tools, tapping his belt buckle thoughtfully with a claw.

  ‘Er …’ said a voice beside him. Jacix had sidled in nervously and was now staring at the butterfly. ‘Can I assist you, sir?’

  Tyrellan glanced at him. It was not yet time to make his example. Instead he smiled, such a rare and unnerving sight that Jacix took a full step backwards. ‘I’m going into Mankow,’ Tyrellan said. ‘I need weapons.’

  ‘Of course, First Slave. Do you require aid in your selection, or shall I leave you?’ It was obvious from Jacix’s tone which option he preferred, but Tyrellan didn’t answer. Jacix quickly followed his gaze. ‘Ah,’ he said, moving to the sword Tyrellan was eyeing. ‘This would be a good choice. Fresh from the forge.’

  Jacix took the sword off the rack, turning it in his hands for Tyrellan’s benefit. It was longer than the one Tyrellan carried, with razor-sharp teeth on one side of the blade. Tyrellan thought it a cumbersome, stupid weapon, but it would appear fearsome to others and that was what he needed. He nodded, and Jacix busied himself finding the sword’s scabbard. In the meantime, Tyrellan picked up a small triple crossbow.

  ‘Ah,’ said Jacix proudly, noting Tyrellan’s selection. ‘May I invite the First Slave to test that out?’ He gestured to the other side of the room where three dummy soldiers stood lined against the wall, straw poking out of their stuffed heads.

  Tyrellan tested the weight of the bow, then aimed it at the dummies. On pressing the trigger three steel bolts sprang out of their grooves, one flying straight and two whistling off at diagonals. The bolt that flew straight lodged in the middle dummy’s head, while the others clattered against the stone wall.

  Jacix cleared his throat. ‘Not the most accurate weapon, of course,’ he said. ‘One would have to be standing the right distance from one’s marks in order to hit them all. But in close quarters, with enemies standing in proximity, this weapon could easily bring down more than one.’

  Tyrellan nodded, and Jacix quickly replaced the steel bolts. Tyrellan hooked the crossbow onto his belt and, satisfied, left the armoury and the cringing Jacix to make his way to Skygrip stables. Today he wished to be as visible as possible and a long-legged horse would serve that purpose.

  Soon he was riding through the outer gate of the castle walls, the guards having raised the portcullis quickly upon seeing him. They stared as he rode silently past, whispering to each other about their superior’s new adornment. Tyrellan bared his fangs, but remained facing forward. Soon , he promised himself. Soon they would cease to stare.

  Pebbles rolled away from the horse’s hooves on the loosely paved road running down the foothills of the mountain that Skygrip had once been. Tyrellan noted the conditions – he would have to assign some workers for repairs. It did not reflect well on the Shadowdreamer if the main road to his castle was unsound.

  Around him the earth was fertile, with trees and bushes plentifully populating the thick blue grasses. At the bottom of the foothills was the Fenvarrow capital, Mankow, stretching out in ramshackle glory on an old flood plain through which no river ran any more.

  Tyrellan entered the city by the south gate. On either side buildings sprawled messily, most constructed from stone and wood, some with dried mud and thatch. There appeared to be no order, the wealthy living alongside the poor. Taverns, brothels and drug dens were all doing a steady trade as night approached, and glowing ice lanterns began to appear. Food vendors trundled carts along the road, and from a distant tavern piped the discordant music of a Graka band playing their knobbly wind instruments. Everywhere he went, people turned to stare and point at the colourful butterfly on his shoulder. He buried his rage just under the surface, letting it build, all the while taking a deliberately long route to the centre of the city. He turned into a side alley, heading towards the Mireform’s Maw, the tavern where, according to his spies, Heron had been staying. It paid to keep a watch on people and, with luck, she would still be there. At worst it was a starting point for the search.

  The tavern was three storeys high and tucked up tight against the buildings beside it. Verandahs off the rooms above overlooked the street at slanted angles. On the third storey an old Mire Pixie leaned against the railing, smoking a pipe and considering Tyrellan curiously. From inside he heard all the regular tavern sounds – laughing and shouting, the clinking of glasses, the clatter of dice. He dismounted and tied his horse to a railing, then walked up to the front door and into the building.

  The doors swung shut behind him. To his left was the bar, attended by a fat Arabodedas woman of middle age. Filling the narrow room were a number of round wooden tables, most of them occupied. To the side was a staircase disappearing up to the higher levels. A large iceplace on the opposite wall was glowing with a generous slab, and above it hung a painted carving of a Mireform’s head baring its teeth in a savage tableau. The denizens of the tavern – mostly men and goblins – glanced over to see who had entered. Tyrellan stared back, quite a sight with the fearsome collection of weaponry hanging from his belt and the butterfly on his shoulder. Silence fell. Evidently some recognised the First Slave, while others were merely taken aback by his appearance. All were quick to turn away from his steely black gaze.

  The butterfly launched itself to do a loop of the room, coming to rest on the bar before the bemused Arabodedas woman. Tyrellan followed it to the counter where he sat on a stool. ‘A mug of whatever you drink here,’ he said. As the bartender nodded and moved away, conversation began to filter back into the room. Tyrellan could hear that most of it now concerned him and his strange familiar.

  The woman plunked a mug of something brown in front of him and he flicked some coins onto the bar. As he raised the mug to his lips, the butterfly returned to his shoulder. Someone in the corner snickered.

  Not long now.

  ‘Don’t, Deeter,’ someone whispered. ‘It’s the First Slave.’

  Deeter, apparently too full of alcoholic bravado to heed his friend’s warning, sidled up to the bar next to Tyrellan. ‘Ho there!’ he announced, spit flecking his rubbery old lips and black Arabodedas beard. He waved a hand towards one of the tables. ‘My friends tell me you’re the great Tyrellan, the First Slave.’

  Tyrellan tapped the mug with a claw and inclined his head. ‘That’s right. And you, if I’m not mistaken, are Deeter the sot.’

  ‘Ooooooh!’ said Deeter, rocking back on his heels in amusement. ‘I should be offended, but you have me pegged. Listen there, Mr Slave – we was wondering something, if you aren’t too busy.’

  The bar had gone silent again, and Deeter was talking loudly enough for everyone’s benefit. Tyrellan forced a smile, trying his best to appear friendly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, ya see …the terrible Tyrellan we heard of, he don’t quite fit yer description. See, we never heard of him going around with a sweet little butterfly sittin’ on his shoulder.’

  Tyrellan waited a moment, taking note of the stifled laughs and nervous tension in the air. Then he swivelled on his stool, butterfly and all, to face Deeter directly.

  ‘It’s true, Deeter,’ he said, also loud enough for all to hear, ‘I’ve only just recently acquired this creature. A mage of the Halls gave it to me while she lay dying by my hand. It is a curse I will never be rid of, but it changes nothing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ chortled Deeter. ‘Well, p’rhaps you’ll allow me to buy yer new friend a drink? Barkeep – a thimble of your finest sugar water!’

  He thumped the counter with a laugh that set the whole bar laughing too, people banging their mugs on tables in appreciation of the joke.

  Tyrellan did a quick head count, then turned back to the fat barmaid, who was also grinning in amusement. Her grin froze as Tyrellan punched a da
gger into the folds of her neck. As she toppled backwards from the counter, he turned to the startled Deeter and caught his jaw in an uppercut that blanked his eyes and sent him crashing to the floor. Twisting from his stool while drawing the fanged sword, Tyrellan ran it through a seated goblin at the nearest table. Another dagger left his hand and hit the goblin’s companion, who was scrambling to his feet. Angry shouts went up.

  Tyrellan smashed the sword through a chair that was being raised against him, then kicked a table savagely so it slid into those who rose behind it, knocking them to the floor. He flipped the table over onto their struggling bodies and leaped on top of it, up and down and up and down until all struggling ceased. As he did this, an Arabodedas rushed towards him with sword drawn, and a Mire Pixie flew through the air with claws extended. The pixie fell immediately with a dagger in his eye, and the sword of the other was deflected with a clang. Tyrellan smacked the man in the side with the fanged edge of his blade, raking flesh as he withdrew it.

  As he leaped off the bloody mass of limbs and wood, a mug glanced his skull and he reeled around, hurling his sword and pinning the thrower against the wall through his stomach. Only three remained standing, keeping well away from Tyrellan with weapons drawn, eyes full of hate and fear. Two, a goblin and a man, stood close together. Tyrellan flipped the triple crossbow into his hand at an angle that compensated for the height difference of his targets. The bolts whistled and his targets fell, steel protruding from their skulls. Tyrellan drew the last dagger from his belt and twirled it in his fingers, staring hard at the remaining man. The butterfly flapped back onto his shoulder.

  The man was backed against the wall, his sword held wavering before him. He was only young, his features soft, and he stared in horror at the carnage around him – the blood-spattered walls, the smashed furniture, the man pinned upright through the belly with limbs twitching. A puddle of urine collected at his feet.

  Tyrellan raised the dagger for him to see clearly and the young man whimpered in terror. Then Tyrellan slipped the blade smoothly back into his belt.

  ‘I am First Slave to the Shadowdreamer,’ he said. ‘It is certainly unfortunate that I’ve been cursed to carry this insect, given to me as I performed my duty to the dark. It is unfortunate, but it changes nothing. From now on, any who think to joke about it, to comment on it, even to look at it, will receive as swift a death as I can manage – and you have seen what I can manage. Stop looking at it! ’

  The dagger left his hand as suddenly as it had reappeared there and the man cried out as it thunked into the wood by his head.

  ‘Now go!’ roared Tyrellan. ‘And warn all of my words!’

  For a moment the man was too afraid to move. Then he rushed to the door, dropping his sword to scrabble at the knob with sweaty hands.

  Tyrellan turned and walked up the stairs.

  •

  Arriving on the first level, he rapped on the closest door. No one answered. The whole tavern would have heard the fight and be lying low.

  ‘If I have to break down this door,’ called Tyrellan, ‘you will not live to regret it!’

  ‘What do you want?’ came a quaking voice.

  ‘Does Heron still live in this tavern?’

  A sense of self-preservation in the unseen occupant kicked in quickly. ‘On the next level. Second door on the left.’

  Tyrellan gave the door a sharp kick to scare the coward inside, then continued up the next flight of stairs. In a silent hallway he found Heron’s door unlocked. On pushing it open, his nostrils were assailed by the stench of liquor, vomit and sweat.

  Apparently Heron had heard none of the ruckus downstairs. The crone lay face down and passed out on her filthy bed, an unlabelled bottle of black liquid still clutched in her spidery hand. Her hair was a tangle of damp grey strands sprayed over her bare back, and a wooden bucket of congealing sick lay on the floor beside her.

  Tyrellan scowled. He went to her cupboard, found a sack, and bundled her clothes into it. There was no jewellery, nor anything else of value – she must have sold it all. He reached down to shake her shoulder.

  ‘Get up, old mage,’ he said.

  She groaned, but gave no further response.

  He rolled her over and propped her up, wrapped a cloak around her naked torso, ignoring her feeble protestations. Then he hoisted her up and over his shoulder – she was light, the pasty old stick – and bent his knees to pick up the sack. Finally he turned and walked from the room with the unconscious mage dribbling down his back.

  Eleven

  A Hero Returns

  The throne Borgordusmae had a great gold triangle as its back, almost twenty paces tall and wider at the top. It caught the sun and shone it over the court, the level of its brightness dependent on the mood of the Throne himself. Once, when Naphur had been in a great rage, Borgordusmae had shone with a brilliance that had never been forgotten – especially by the treacherous man quailing at his feet.

  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, i
t 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.