Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  Swordplay was next, using practice blades. Munpo arranged the bouts in a tournament style, three pairs jousting at a time while the others watched. Bel’s first match was against Hunna, which he won swiftly in two quick movements. Hunna was annoyed, claiming he’d not been ready, and demanded a rematch. Bel granted it to him, and again won swiftly. As he glanced towards those watching, he saw that their admiration for his skill was in danger of becoming begrudging. Perhaps he had won a little too easily.

  He forced himself to draw out his second bout, against a well-muscled blade called Keit. Keit was a natural swordsman, flexible and strong, and far superior in skill to Hunna. Back and forth they went, swords flashing with speed and precision. For Bel it seemed like a dance, and he almost laughed with pleasure as his opponent forced him backwards under a barrage of blows. Cheers went up amongst the onlookers, and Bel realised with annoyance that they were barracking for Keit. Although he knew he should let Keit win, vanity proved more powerful than humility. As calls for Keit filled his ears, he suddenly found himself standing over the fallen man, his sword levelled at Keit’s heart. The troop fell silent as Bel reached out to offer the man a hand up. Keit’s hard blue eyes stared up at him, and for a moment Bel thought his offer was refused – but then Keit’s hand caught his in a strong grip and Bel helped him to his feet.

  ‘Well fought,’ said Bel.

  ‘And you,’ said Keit. ‘Corlas must be quite a teacher.’

  ‘That he is,’ came the dry voice of Munpo.

  The troop leader removed a brittleleaf end from his chapped lips and flicked it away, then drew his sword from its frayed scabbard. He nodded at Bel, who realised he was being challenged by his commanding officer. Staring at Munpo, he resented the man for placing him in such an awkward position. He had no desire to show up Munpo in front of his troop, but he didn’t trust his pride to let him take a fall to such a dilapidated opponent. Corlas had spoken of the man with respect, but even so Bel couldn’t imagine the wiry little warrior posing much threat. Reluctantly he took up an answering pose, sword held ready. It was too much for the soldiers still jousting, who stopped to watch their troop leader challenge the new blade.

  Munpo took a step back, inviting Bel to attack. Bel lunged and their swords clashed. Munpo’s grip was surprisingly strong, his sword steady against Bel’s blows. The troop leader edged backwards, blocking Bel’s sword each time with understated moves, defending only a small circle around himself. He was quick, and Bel found his defence difficult to penetrate. He aimed a powerful swing, hoping strength alone would unbalance Munpo. Munpo simply lowered his blade, and Bel stumbled as his blow met no resistance. Munpo attacked for the first time, stepping forward to spike his sword, dagger-like, at Bel’s stomach. Already off balance, Bel had to put more effort into his defence than he would have liked, batting away the attack gracelessly. Munpo pressed his advantage, little jabs and slices coming one after the other in quick succession. Such was the economy of his movement that he remained totally steady as he continued forward. Bel’s defence was bigger by comparison and he knew he was expending more effort than Munpo. He tried to control his frustration at being pressed back by the quick little man, just as Munpo swung his sword back in a wide arc, leaving his left side exposed. Bel seized the opportunity, swiping quickly, but Munpo was already dodging away. Too late Bel knew it had been a trick, luring him to attack when he was already off balance. Munpo bounced forward to press his practice blade against Bel’s rib cage.

  As the troop applauded the victory, Bel stared at the older man. Munpo, who’d barely broken a sweat, nodded at him. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he said.

  Conflicting emotions fought in Bel. Although he had not wished to beat this man in front of the troop, he’d considered the choice of losing to be his. He knew he wasn’t invulnerable – Corlas still beat him sometimes, but Corlas was a hero and his teacher besides. Against the spindly Munpo, Bel found it hard to accept defeat. Added to that, the rest of the troop was clearly glad that he’d been proven fallible. He understood this, of course, but he would have preferred to have secretly known that he could have won if he’d wanted to. It was a sobering blow to his ego.

  Outwardly he took it with good grace. He nodded respectfully to Munpo and stepped back into the troop, where he received a few slaps on the back.

  ‘Head up, blade,’ said someone beside him, who turned out to be Keit. ‘Munpo is wilier than a fox in a henhouse.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Bel. ‘Though such a fox would look better fed.’

  Keit barked a laugh, and suddenly Bel was very thankful that Munpo had won.

  •

  After dinner the troop went to the Soldiers Bar, located next to the mess hall in the barracks. Being the only bar in the Halls, it wasn’t just a meeting place for soldiers and so did a strong trade most nights. It was a long room, with squares cut into the floorboards through which trees grew from the earth beneath. Along the walls lanterns shone brightly, their heat rising up through the non-existent roof into a sky of twinkling stars. The bar itself ran the length of the far wall, while in the rest of the room attendants moved between tables taking orders. None of the noise travelled outside the bar due to the ‘Essence of Walls’, and thus didn’t disturb sleeping soldiers elsewhere in the barracks.

  Bel was waiting at the bar for his next drink when M’Meska stepped up beside him, a tall glass of bloodfire in her bluntly clawed hand. He noted that a tail was a handy thing to lean on when its owner had consumed too much bloodfire.

  ‘You lucky today, Varenkai,’ she said in a voice ill equipped for human language, rasping and full of odd clicks. ‘Hit target good, yes?’ She upended the glass of thick liquor down her throat.

  ‘If anything,’ said Bel, ‘I’d say you’re the lucky one.’

  ‘What mean?’ demanded the Saurian, slamming her glass down empty on the counter.

  ‘Since I’m about to buy you a drink.’

  He gestured at a bartender, and a moment later a mug of ale and another glass of bloodfire arrived. The Saurian grunted and took another large swig.

  ‘You do know that’s bloodfire, not water?’ said Bel, counting out copper.

  ‘I know,’ said M’Meska, missing the friendly dig. ‘Saurian blood not so thin as Varenkai, and sun not shine so bright in Halls as at Furoara Sands. I need warm my blood so far from home.’ She gulped from the glass at a rate that made Bel queasy.

  ‘Now,’ said M’Meska, ‘you.’ She tapped the bar, summoning the bartender. ‘Two,’ she said, holding up two claws.

  ‘Ah,’ Bel began in protest, ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘Warm your blood,’ said the Saurian. She held up her claws again at the hesitant bartender. ‘Two,’ she repeated.

  The bartender shrugged and soon two glasses of bloodfire stood before them on the bench. Bel stared at his with some trepidation.

  ‘Drink,’ said the Saurian, lifting her glass in a clumsy toast. Bel, not wishing to offend the strange soldier, lifted his too. They drank, Bel sipping and M’Meska swallowing greedily.

  ‘Bah,’ said M’Meska, licking her lips. ‘You shoot like Saurian, but still drink like human.’

  ‘Thank Arkus for that,’ said Bel, coughing; his throat burned. He quickly drank some ale to wash it down.

  ‘Be wary, Blade Bel,’ came a creaky voice from beside him, and the smell of stale brittleleaf wafted past his nostrils.

  ‘Troop leader,’ Bel acknowledged.

  ‘We have a long ride tomorrow,’ said Munpo, ‘and I’ve seen the aftermath when men try to match a Saurian at drink. It isn’t pretty.’

  ‘Bah,’ reiterated M’Meska and moved away, bobbing birdlike on her hind legs. A barmaid with a drink tray had to sidestep quickly to avoid her swinging tail.

  ‘Can I buy you a drink, sir?’ said Bel.

  ‘You may, soldier.’

  Again Bel gestured to the bartender. Munpo took out his brittleleaf pouch and began to make himself a roll. ‘What did you think
of today?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems like a good troop, sir,’ answered Bel. ‘I’m glad to be part of it.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Munpo, sealing the roll over his lips. ‘And you did well in the bouts.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘But you lost to me,’ said Munpo, putting the roll in his mouth and lighting it. Smoke issued over the counter. Munpo nodded to the bartender as his ale arrived. ‘Any ideas why?’

  Bel licked his lips. He was feeling a little foggy from the drinking, and the question irritated him. ‘You’re a quick man, sir,’ he said after a moment. ‘And a skilful fighter.’

  ‘True,’ said Munpo matter-of-factly. ‘But those aren’t the reasons. I saw you fight Hunna and Keit. I know, just as Keit does, that you could have beaten him sooner than you did. I imagine he’s thankful that you didn’t injure his pride as you did Hunna’s, but he doesn’t deceive himself. That said, I know he would not refuse you a rematch.’ For the first time Bel saw Munpo smile, a dry enigmatic smile that tweaked the corners of his mouth then dropped away quickly. ‘I almost thought you were going to let him win,’ said Munpo.

  ‘I thought about it.’

  ‘Mmm. Now, why did you lose to me?’

  ‘As I said, sir –’

  ‘No, blade, that’s not it. You lost because you underestimated me. I’m not saying you would have won if you hadn’t, but you certainly lost because you did.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘You’re not invincible, lad.’

  Bel was openly annoyed by that. ‘I never said I was, sir.’

  ‘Your expression did, after I beat you. You couldn’t believe it, could you? You, young and strong and full of juice, losing to a tired old scrap like me. Well, I tell you this, blade: you underestimate someone like me on the battlefield and you don’t get to have an expression afterwards. You’ll be face down in the dirt with your eyes seein’ nothin’.’ He stared Bel hard in the eye. ‘Now you listen, lad. You’re good, we can all see that. Corlas warned me, and now I’ve seen you for myself, I might just agree with him. But don’t let your skill go to your head. The battlefield is no training ground. There’s no one on one, no control. It’s unpredictable and fast. You make one mistake out there and you’re dead. You underestimate one opponent because you don’t respect him and you’re dead.’

  He sucked his brittleleaf, letting Bel digest his words.

  ‘You’re young and untried in a dangerous world. I’ve seen skilful, brave and arrogant men die more often than I care to remember because they didn’t keep their wits about them. Don’t go letting someone like me rile you up so much that you fall for a simple trick. And remember, Bel, if a soldier is young, it just means he ain’t been killed yet. If he’s old, it means he ain’t been killed a long time.’ Munpo winked. ‘But enough for now. You’re doing well. Even M’Meska seems to have taken a liking to you. Word of advice though – don’t accept any more drinks from her. It won’t do my pontificatin’ much good if tomorrow you fall off your horse and break your neck because you’re still drunk.’

  There was that fleeting smile again and Munpo moved away. Bel felt vaguely patronised, but he could see the point of what had been said. Nonetheless, he was bothered. How could he be expected to lead the light to victory if he couldn’t best an old man? When he’d been young and they’d told him about his destiny, it had made him feel invincible. His was to be a life of adventure and greatness, and if he was to change the world, surely it was preordained that he would survive at least until then? Was any risk really a risk? Once he had stood at the edge of a building, wondering what would happen if he threw himself off. Would some miracle save him, ensuring he could go on to meet his destiny? He’d asked Fahren, who had said it didn’t work like that, but couldn’t really explain how it did work. The encounter with Munpo, while it hadn’t been about life and death, had certainly showed him to be fallible. Feeling unsure of himself was an alien and unpleasant feeling. He took a big swig from the bloodfire, and spluttered immediately.

  ‘That more like it!’ said M’Meska behind him.

  At evening’s end, Bel glanced a final time towards the Soldiers Bar entrance. He hadn’t really expected her to come, but had hoped nonetheless. They’d planned to meet in The Wayward Dog that night, before he’d received his orders for Drel. He’d left a note at the tavern asking her to join him here instead, but a criminal – and he was pretty sure she was one – would not lightly enter the barracks of the Open Halls. Yet excitement about the mission had not purged Jaya from his mind. The night they’d spent together had been something outside his experience. When morning had come it had been hard to part. He didn’t want her thinking he’d abandoned their plan to meet. Why hadn’t she come to find him?

  Gods , he thought, been waiting my whole life to join a troop; now all I want is something else . Pushing back his seat, he rose from a table long abandoned by his comrades. Ah well. Tomorrow is going to be a bright new day.

  Sixteen

  Before the Council

  Kakurd glanced around, searching for his friend Peasa. He spotted the old Graka about halfway up the throne room, standing next to the long window. Typical of him to choose a place with the wind at his back , thought Kakurd. He also spied the Arabodedas entourage, who were standing as close to Refectu as they could jostle. Kakurd had recently relinquished his title as Counsellor of the Arabodedas, and was now merely an advisor, like Peasa. Also like Peasa, he did not feel the need to stand with his main party, as there would always be time later for the younger representatives to haughtily discount what wiser old buggers had to say. As he made his way through the assembled council towards his friend, he wondered how long it had been since such a gathering had filled the throne room. Perhaps it had been when Battu had called them all together after the assassination attempt at the beginning of his reign, to let them see he was still in charge.

  Peasa inclined his hairless ebony head as Kakurd arrived. ‘His dark lordliness has not yet arrived,’ he lisped quietly, forked tongue flicking out over pointy little teeth. ‘Look, there’s the boy, by Refectu.’

  Kakurd followed his gaze. The blue-haired boy was standing by the dais, an empty circle around him into which no council member trod. The Arabodedas representatives were making a show of looking him over then talking behind their hands. The boy appeared not to notice and stood silent and still, his eyes moving about the room slowly, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘You’ve heard the rumours?’ said Peasa.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Kakurd. ‘As have the rest of the Arabodedas. They aren’t pleased.’

  ‘Why not? The boy is a man, is he not?’

  ‘Not an Arabodedas, Peasa.’

  ‘He’s as pale as one.’

  ‘He is paler. And he was born in Kainordas. Most don’t know what to make of him. They have no faith in the prophecy.’ He considered the Arabodedas entourage from under grey eyebrows. ‘Besides, they’ve already picked their favourite.’

  Peasa ground his stony bat wings together. ‘Roma?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ The Graka grinned. ‘About time there was some excitement round here. I remember when the throne room was a lively place.’

  ‘Before Battu,’ muttered Kakurd.

  ‘Speaking of the great one, I think he’s arriving.’

  The goblin aide Turry made his way down the middle of the room, snapping at people to clear a path. He arrived at Refectu and turned, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Welcome, members of the Shadow Council!’ he called nasally. ‘Prepare to receive the Shadowdreamer!’

  The council fell silent as Battu appeared through the archway, followed closely by Tyrellan. The dark lord barely glanced at the assemblage as he made his way up to the dais, where he turned to stand before the ancient throne.

  ‘Greetings, council members,’ he said, though his tone did not imply much respect. ‘You are called because I have an announcement to make. I would like to introduce to you my student Losara, who has recently come of age. Step fo
rward, Losara.’

  Losara did so, allowing everyone a good look at him. He even smiled politely at a few of them.

  ‘As many of you know, I have seen to his care and tutelage since he first arrived at Skygrip,’ continued Battu. ‘He is the child of power, born of prophecy to overthrow the light.’ Battu paused, casting his gaze slowly around his audience. ‘I intend to name him Apprentice.’

  Low talk broke out. Battu sat down on Refectu, his black cloak melting into its crevices, and smiled smugly.

  ‘Look at him,’ Peasa whispered. ‘He desires a challenge.’

  ‘It’s better for the Apprentice if there is one,’ said Kakurd. ‘To display his suitability.’

  Battu leaned forward and the scattered talk ceased abruptly. ‘I will hear any discussion on this matter.’

  From the Arabodedas camp, Counsellor Tysek cleared his throat cautiously. He was a middle-aged man with curly black hair, a bit on the tubby side. ‘My great lord,’ he said, bowing deeply.

  ‘Counsellor Tysek,’ acknowledged Battu.