Prophecy's Ruin bw-1

by Sam Bowring

  As he drifted away, the female stretched out to full length and rippled her body towards him. The old eel wound to a stop, curious. Her mate must indeed be dead, for only brooding females without a partner would seek to entice another into the nest. Taking a replacement mate could be a risky business.

  Salt.

  The old eel was barely able to care for himself, let alone a brood of young. He sensed, though, that the mother was weak and desperate. If she didn’t hunt soon she would die, and then all her young would die too. Instinct turned him back towards her and he began to swim against the current. The effort seemed more taxing than it ever had before. The female regarded him warily as he approached.

  The taste of salt on his lips. The cold breeze through his hair.

  The eel realised he was floating off course and tried to correct himself – but his body wasn’t responding any more. He lost momentum, rolling in the current to drift towards the bottom. A cloud of sediment rose as he hit, a soft impact that he did not feel. He lay still as his heart slowed, his breaths coming further apart, until his gills stopped moving altogether.

  This, then, was what he could offer. The young family would feed on him, drawing out the strength he could no longer use, and perhaps he would save them. It was better than waiting for the crabs, and the old eel only wished that he’d caught a fish and filled his belly with fresh meat for the young. As floating particles settled on his body, he died in peace. The mother drew closer, still wary.

  Salt.

  There was the taste of salt on his lips.

  Losara licked his lips and found his tongue dry, and drifted back to consciousness. The salt crystals encrusted on his lids broke as his eyes opened. Above him the Cloud covered the sky more thickly than he’d ever seen it. The serenity that came from immersing himself in the shadows of the sea was replaced by the bite in his stomach. He empathised with the hunger of the old eel.

  The boat rocked slightly as he rummaged through his supplies and drank what little remained of his water. He was close to the Boundary now, and before him the world opened like the mouth of an enormous cave, swallowing the ocean. He took hold of the oars once more and began to row. Weariness had become his waking world, having rowed for days with such limited rations. He had never done much physical work before and his slender frame had nothing to replace the energy he burned. He’d tried to use his powers to lure fish up to the boat, but discovered that something kept them away. He’d sniffed out an enchantment on the boat itself, old and subtle. He didn’t know whether he could have broken it or not, but instinct told him not to try. If fasting was supposed to be part of this journey, so be it. He found that he kept drifting from his body, losing himself in the boundless ocean, riding with the strange souls that dwelled there. The shadow was so strong here, in both the air and the depths beneath, surrounding him on all sides. It was hard to keep himself contained.

  He wondered if he was failing this test. If so, when he reached the Boundary, he would drift over it without finding the Isle. There were many theories on the Boundary and what lay beyond it. Some thought new worlds; some thought oblivion; others thought it was the home of the gods themselves, where they kept their Wells. Kainordas also had a Boundary, far out in the Shallow Sea. From what Losara had heard, as one went further and further out, the light grew brighter until it was blinding. He shuddered at the thought of such a place. Only one thing was certain about the Boundaries: no one who went over them had ever returned.

  He didn’t feel too unsettled, however. Somehow he didn’t believe that being abandoned at sea was his fate. The fields of wavelets on the choppy waters, the fresh chill tingling his ivory skin, all the lives moving beneath the surface …He lay back down, dangled a hand over each side of the boat, and out he spread, into the sea.

  …a large sturgeon cruises along, a row of phosphorescent circles glowing on its cheeks to attract unwary prey. It swims around something that looks like a large rock, but as Losara drifts closer he sees the ‘rock’ is alive, a creature like a lump of flesh covered in tough brown skin. Vents open in its side and an acrid excretion plumes out. The sturgeon is repelled and darts away …

  …a school of five jet-black shrimps fossick in a silt valley. Their small claws work the sediment, but one steps over a buried worm. The worm snaps up, catching the shrimp and crushing it in the loops of its body. The remaining shrimps flick off in alarm, their sad school that much smaller …

  …a thing like a sea urchin on long, stilt-like legs moves haltingly across a sandy plain. A crab with claws twice as long as its body scuttles beneath a rock. A green and white jellyfish, with a body like two circles spinning in opposite directions. Other things …stranger things …older things …

  …Tyrellan stands by a ditch with a reedy stream at the bottom. With him is a well-muscled goblin and Heron. Tyrellan nods, and the goblins go down the embankment to the stream. Tyrellan lies on his back, shoots Heron an intense look, then lowers his head under the water. The other goblin holds him down, muscles bulging as Tyrellan begins to thrash. Eventually Tyrellan lies still. The muscled goblin drags Tyrellan out of the water and up the embankment, laying him before Heron. Heron kneels, putting her fingers to Tyrellan’s wrist, then his neck. ‘Is he dead?’ asks the muscled goblin. ‘Yes,’ says Heron. She glances at the butterfly, which rests on the bridge of Tyrellan’s nose, its colourful wings open so their false eyes cover Tyrellan’s closed ones. Heron extends her hand and uses magic to draw the water from Tyrellan’s lungs, then shocks his heart into beating again. Tyrellan lurches up, coughing violently. For a moment he’s dazed, then he looks around blearily and sees the butterfly. He scrambles to his feet and stumbles away, but it follows him as closely as ever. ‘If death does not sever the connection,’ he roars, ‘will this vermin haunt my gravestone for all time?’ …

  He awoke to the oars straining in their holdings. How long had he been gone? The boat was now surrounded by a darkness he could not penetrate, and somewhere inside it was the Isle. There was no point rowing any more. The gods would guide him now, or not. Hours passed and he drifted, half-asleep, half-super-aware of the environment around him. Sea life dwindled, save for a few ancient presences that he felt cautious about approaching. As he dreamed he found himself looking down at the boat, which held a different passenger.

  It is a young Arabodedas woman, her hair running in snakish dreadlocks, baring sharpened teeth. Losara knows her to be Assidax, the Shadowdreamer preceding Raker. He can see her clearly somehow, even though she sails through the same darkness he does. He can see everything, he realises …not as if it is being lit up, but just because it is there. He wonders if this strange sense is a result of the dream, or if it will carry into his waking state.

  Assidax changes, and now it is Raker who sails to the Isle. A young man, he nevertheless looks as drawn as his bust in Skygrip. Many scars run across his face, and his eyes are afraid as he clutches a painful stomach and stares into the dark. He thinks that he has failed, that he will drift across the Boundary.

  They were here, where I am, thinks Losara. They were here and they succeeded. I have not yet passed the Boundary.

  Raker fades and a young Battu takes his place. Battu rows ceaselessly, his muscles bulging under his black robe, fierce determination on his face. Abruptly he lets the oars drop and stands up tall in the boat. ‘Receive me, my gods!’ he calls. ‘Your servant is here!’ Moments of silence go by and Battu’s face twists in frustration. He sits down and begins to row once more.

  Now his view is from beneath the waves, looking up at the boat far above, cutting across a roof of water. Ahead is a great undersea mountain, and Losara sees something climbing the slope. The sense of presence the entity exudes is awe-inspiring, and he draws closer in the dream, taking in the immensity of it. Colossal armoured legs rise and fall, sinking deeply into sand and rock with equal ease. Plates of exoskeletal armour as wide as villages creak against each other as it climbs, its cyclopean front claws opening like scissors. It is
like a gigantean lobster, its horny black armour streaked with greens and reds, a being so enormous it could swat dragons like dragonflies. Slowly and surely it plods up the rise towards the boat.

  Losara sees the hands of the boat’s occupant trailing in the water as he sleeps. In a moment of cold clarity, he realises he is shadowdreaming the present, that the person in the boat is him, and the creature is reaching towards him with pincers that could crush towers …

  Back he went, streaming to his body, rushing to contain his consciousness within it. At the very moment he arrived back inside himself, he heard a snick in the water beside him. The tips of the entity’s claws appeared above the surface, razor-sharp points clicking together at the pinnacle of the great appendages. Losara sat up abruptly, raising his hands from the water to find them gone, sliced cleanly at the wrist. Twin fountains erupted from the stumps as his life pulsed out of him in a torrent. He wondered vaguely if the attack was over, or if the boat would smash around him as the monster finished its work. A moment later his eyes glazed over and he passed out.

  Twenty-two

  Trickster

  First came the birds, their songs competing sweetly. That was good – it meant there were no huggers nearby. Then came the sound of someone breathing, close to the …bed? Yes, he was in a bed. On the back of this realisation he became aware of his aching body. And then, distant echoes from the spirit …

  …must get gone to Treewith …if someone finds it? …he’s awake …

  Bel certainly didn’t feel awake. His eyelids were strapped down like saddlebags.

  …he’s listening …

  When he recalled the battle, it was as if he’d been drunk. It had been intoxicating, mesmerising, how he had moved! But now, as with drink, his spirits plummeted in the aftermath. As he’d ridden a bloodlust high, his troop had been slaughtered and he’d managed only to save himself. Was that how it would be in the end? Was he to secure victory against the shadow even as his friends fell around him? M’Meska had lived, but something told him she would have lived anyway. In fact it was he who owed his life to her – she must have been the one to carry him back here after he lost consciousness.

  Someone put a hand on his arm and instinctively he opened his eyes. For a moment he didn’t recognise the lean woman sitting by the bed. Then he remembered she was Pelar, the Citizen Prime of Drel.

  ‘Here,’ she said, ‘drink this.’

  The liquid she pressed to his lips was bitter, but sparkled in his mouth and throat. Some sort of revitalising tonic?

  ‘I’m in Drel?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Your comrade M’Meska brought you back from the forest. She says …’

  ‘What?’ said Bel wearily, closing his eyes again.

  ‘That you two are the only ones who survived. That the nest was big, bigger than anyone thought it would be.’

  ‘Must have been a big fire,’ said Bel, echoing Munpo’s words.

  Pelar’s brow twitched. ‘Blade Bel? The Saurian says she didn’t see Rokinin killed. Since we don’t have any bodies, we’ve no way of knowing who we lost.’

  Bel sighed deeply, remembering Rokinin shaking in the ferns. ‘Everyone was lost,’ he muttered.

  ‘Are you sure? Did you see him die?’

  Bel opened his eyes again, irritated that she pressed him. ‘Yes,’ he snapped. ‘I saw him die! Horribly.’ As tears formed in Pelar’s eyes, he tried to control his annoyance. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Was he …dear to you?’

  ‘It’s a small town,’ said Pelar. ‘And he was a good man who’ll be missed by many. I will be one of them.’ She wiped her tears even as new ones formed.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Bel, more sincerely this time. ‘He died bravely, defending the people he loved.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pelar. ‘As did the others from Drel who were with him.’ She rose. ‘I’ll leave you to get dressed. M’Meska will want to know you’re awake. I think she’s eager to be away.’

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Since yesterday afternoon,’ said Pelar.

  Outside it was a sunny morning, just like the one so fresh in his mind. Surreally, it felt as if no time had passed.

  ‘Blade Bel?’ said Pelar.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The town thanks you for your efforts. M’Meska told us how you fought. We are grateful you could free us from the threat in the forest.’ She bowed her head in solemn thanks, then quietly shut the door behind her.

  That’s right , thought Bel. We fought for the townsfolk. It is a victory, after all.

  The tonic was muting his aches and he no longer felt like going back to sleep. Sitting up stiffly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  …mad warrior …

  What? he demanded suddenly, thinking in a shout.

  Ah! came the spirit’s voice, perfectly clear this time. You’re getting up?

  I can hear you, you know. I hear things I don’t think you mean me to. What are you?

  As I’ve told you, Blade Bel, came the quick response. A spirit sent by Arkus to aid you in your battles.

  Aid me? What aid have you given me?

  In answer Bel received a deluge of images from the previous day, showing each instance when the spirit had influenced the troop or the huggers. Bel somehow sensed that the spirit was trying to repress them, but they kept coming.

  You used my comrades as monster bait? he thought angrily. You made them ignore their own safety to protect me? You caused soldiers to die who might have lived? This is the work of Arkus?

  Blade –

  Arkus would never send one such as you. What are you?

  …betrayer …exile of the Garden …

  WHAT ARE YOU?

  ‘Awake, I see,’ said M’Meska. ‘Is good. The day run by. We must be gone.’

  Bel hadn’t heard the Saurian come in, but she was bobbing across the room to the bed. Gripping Bel by the shoulders, she hauled him unwillingly to a standing position. He realised, with some embarrassment, that someone had stripped him to his undergarments.

  ‘Get dressed,’ said the Saurian. ‘No bashful. Your human parts mean nothing to me. Ugly as the rest of you.’

  She started throwing Bel’s things on the bed. Bel staggered to the window and looked out. He was in the Drel barracks.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘You saw.’

  ‘I passed out.’

  ‘I know. Who lug you all way back to Drel, think you?’

  He turned. ‘Yes. Thank you for that, M’Meska.’

  ‘Well, not going leave you there. You soldier of Halls.’ The Saurian paused in attacking Bel’s things. ‘I in troop with Munpo lot of years,’ she said. One of the spines on her head twitched. ‘And some of others too. Other soldiers in troop. Many years.’

  ‘I understand you.’

  ‘Very bad, what happen in forest.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bel. ‘No argument there.’

  ‘You fight very well,’ she said. ‘I never see like it. Like berserker, but more …art.’ She looked frustrated. ‘I have no way to say in Varenkai tongue. One man, how can take on so many huggers and live? Then but, you had M’Meska helping.’

  Bel dimly recalled M’Meska leaping from rock to branch, plying arrows into shrieking huggers.

  ‘I shoot down nests after too,’ she said. ‘No nest, no trouble for Drel.’ She stood abruptly. ‘Hurry up. I want get to Treewith tonight.’

  …Treewith …

  You and I are going to have words, said Bel.

  •

  Soon enough they were riding down the main road of Drel. Some of the townsfolk tipped their hats or called out thanks. Some remained silent. Bel knew the damage dealt to these people was ongoing. He was relieved when they passed out the gate into the green fields beyond. The day seemed sunnier as they broke into a gallop towards Treewith.

  As they rode, Iassia could feel Bel listening for him. Try as he might to keep his thoughts shielded, this whole experience had left him w
eak and he desperately needed to be back in his body. Soon Bel would see through his lies as if they were made of glass.

  What are you? came Bel’s demand once more.

  …a race once loved by the Sun God …now exiles from Paradise …

  What? Why?

  …because we betrayed Arkus …

  Stay back, Iassia directed clearly. Stay out of my thoughts.

  Your thoughts? Is that what I hear when I’m not supposed to?

  …yes …

  Why? How?

  Our minds are too close. So close that if you continue to invade my thoughts, it will destroy us both.

  I don’t think so, replied Bel.

  Foolish human, continued Iassia. I am weak, and fighting you makes me weaker. Do you know what will happen if I expend my strength?

  Tell me, liar.

  My mind will unravel inside yours and I’ll never be able to leave. For the rest of your life you’ll be haunted by echoes of me. Is that what you want?

  Where did you come from? Bel demanded angrily. WHAT ARE YOU?

  Iassia could not hold out against the force of Bel’s will, and answering thoughts poured forth.

  …I am a weaver …joined you accidentally at Treewith Inn …my mind was separated from my body when I entered yours …I became lost because there is something missing inside you …we need to get back to the inn …

  A weaver? A weaver bird?

  …yes …

  So you are a trickster.

  Yes, said Iassia. What did he care now? I am.

  What did you mean there is something missing?

  You aren’t a whole person, Bel. You are forced together like the wrong pieces in a puzzle. Your components grind against each other like malfunctioning cogs.

  He sensed Bel considering this.

  Everyone has chaos inside them, Bel said eventually.

  Not like this. You always believed, didn’t you, that it was a blessing that the shadow part of you was expunged? You think you lost nothing. You think, in fact, that you are better than others because you have been cleansed of weakness. Well, it isn’t true, Bel. You are less of a person than your other.