The Fall Of Celene (The Prophecies of Zanufey Book 2)

by A. Evermore

  Marakon blinked and came back to himself. ‘Did you see anymore?’ he asked.

  She paused and then shook her head, suddenly the shy young girl once more.

  Marakon had a desperate need to walk in the sunshine and to be alone. ‘Thank you for your thoughts, they mean something, though I don’t know what…’ he mumbled, ‘and my name is Marakon,’ he added but didn’t know why. He stepped away.

  ‘You are a good soul, Marakon, a strong and good soul,’ she called after him.

  He turned to look at her. She was smiling and her eyes gleamed as if they were filled with tears of sadness, or joy. What was it she had seen? He forced a smile and left the herb stall. The crowd engulfed him and for a brief moment he stood still breathing deeply of the cool clean air, letting the strong comforting sunlight fall upon his closed eyelids as the people bustled past. Then he was moving with the throng.

  Marakon walked as fast as he could, wheedling his way past barrows filled with pumpkins twice the size of his head, squeezing past families clinging to each other so fearful of anyone becoming lost they moved as one being in a long line or tight bunch making it impossible for anybody to get past or move quickly.

  He headed straight for the West Gate thinking upon what the elf girl had said. It was even slower going as he neared the narrow gate for now it had become so busy it was single file in, single file out. He gave up pushing and relaxed into following the next person in front, letting his mind wander.

  The girl had unlocked something within him, a memory or idea that he couldn’t quite bring to mind and yet he felt it to be true. It seemed as if his whole world had suddenly changed and yet he didn’t know how or why or what was different. He was so deep in thought that it took him a while to realise that the press of people had now stopped along with the chattering and laughing. Everyone had grown quiet except for hushed whisperings. Everyone except for one person.

  The cracked strained voice of an old woman shouting somewhere behind him in the courtyard somehow cut through the din of the bustling market bringing them all to silence. Looking over his shoulder it took him a while to find the source of the loud trembling voice.

  The crowd suddenly parted to let the old woman through. People fell back from her, afraid she was diseased or possessed by a demon. Though when Marakon’s eyes came to rest upon her she was not ill or infected, just a bent over old woman clinging to a knobbled walking stick. She wore a fraying patchwork shawl and a faded green dress that reached the dusty road. Her long grey hair hung in knotted strands like old frayed rope around her shoulders. She shuffled unsteadily forwards.

  ‘You!’ she cried.

  Marakon did a double check around him and found that the crowd had fallen back, like they had from the old woman, and he was suddenly horribly alone. It now seemed as if he and the woman were on some kind of dusty stage surrounded by an audience and were about to enact a play. She pointed a thin bony finger towards him, making it dismally clear that it was indeed him to which she called.

  ‘You have come again to us but to serve us or destroy us?’ the woman’s voice cracked and she was forced to stop by a hacking cough that racked her body.

  Marakon sighed and slumped his shoulders, what on Maioria was going on with the world today? Was it “get Marakon” day? He was about to turn away and leave this nonsense but to his chagrin he saw some of his soldiers in the crowd watching with interest. He also knew better than to push his way through a now highly suspicious and superstitious crowd. Also, the guards that walked atop the city walls had stopped to watch the spectacle, all boredom gone from their faces.

  He sighed again, this was the last thing he wanted right now, some superstitious words coming from a half mad old crone to set his nerves on edge just before battle. Perhaps there was some good that could come out of this, he thought, though ideas failed him. Perhaps this mad woman needed a coin to shut her up or a helping hand to some place. He turned to face the woman.

  ‘What can I help you with, wise lady?’ he forced a smile, and found himself asking before he could stop himself, ‘What is it you see?’ He immediately regretted asking. He’d done it now, now there would be no easy getting away.

  The woman’s clear hazel eyes, seemingly untouched by age, looked up at him as she shuffled forwards. There was no madness in them and this unnerved Marakon all the more.

  ‘The King has returned!’ she said and the crowd began to murmur more loudly amongst themselves. But as she neared him her shouting dropped to talking. Marakon realised that this was not intended to be a show for the people and that the woman, like the young elf girl, probably had the Sight and was compelled to share it.

  ‘Wise woman,’ Marakon said, just loud enough for those nearest to hear, ‘I am no king, I am just a soldier of the Feylint Halanoi. You must be mistaken.’ And bloody well going to get me into a lot of treasonous trouble, usually rectified by hanging, he thought sourly.

  ‘I am not mistaken!’ the old woman shouted and Marakon winced, holding up his hands for quiet, wishing for all the world that there was not an audience watching. ‘I knew it was you,’ she said, nodding her head and giving a tilted smile, her voice was just above a whisper, much to Marakon’s relief. ‘But you do not know yourself!’ she cried. Marakon flinched. The crowd was talking now but still they looked eagerly on.

  ‘I do not…’ he began, but she talked over him.

  ‘I can but show you, though it will drain me,’ she said, and before he could move away she grasped his arm and clung with surprising strength as her eyes flashed blue.

  Before Marakon could prise off her bony fingers pressure filled his mind and a cloud passed over his eyes. Suddenly he was looking up at a blue sky as fluffy white clouds swirled around him. A dull throbbing pounded in his head and the air became thick like soup and difficult to breathe. Something was on his head and he reached up. The cold metal of a helmet met his touch but he had not put it there. He took it off and looked at the gold circlet adorning it. He recognised it and yet knew he had never seen it in his life.

  He looked down and found the clouds surrounding him had become his mount, a gleaming white horse armoured in shining polished metal. The tabard he wore was familiar but not Feylint Halanoi for it was white with a silver star embroidered in the centre. The crowd that stared at him were not market-goers and merchants but dressed smartly, townsfolk mixed with lords and ladies. They were all smiling and cheering and for some reason he too felt the same elation.

  Then he was galloping, with other knights dressed as he and mounted upon white horses, across rich green grass under a clear blue sky. The freedom was palpable and their hearts were pure, they were knights of honour and protectors of righteousness, and he was their king.

  Dark clouds swept across the sun and the scene changed.

  They were no longer mounted but on foot and in the thick of battle on a cold and desolate plain, not a tree in sight and only a few wisps of long thin grass poked out feebly between the rocks. Between the clang and clash of steel against steel the wind howled around them. Before him lunged a warrior with an old notched and rusty sword. He thrust his own sword forwards, parried a blow and sliced hard right knocking his opponent’s sword down as he punched upwards with his gauntleted fist.

  His foe’s helmet wobbled loosely back and with a yelp of horror Marakon saw he fought a skeleton, armour hung off its bones, its helmet half cocked, sword held aloft in bony fingers. Under that loose fitting helmet, empty eye sockets bore into his own and the stench of death filled his nostrils. Marakon’s terror gave him speed; he swung his sword fast and scraped through the skeleton’s ribcage and pelvis. It crumpled to the ground.

  He gawped in awe at his own sword arm for it had no flesh either, only gleaming white bone and his legs were not flesh and blood but long thin bones. He looked across the battlefield. They were all skeletons. And just as he realised that they all stopped fighting and turned to look at him. They raised their fleshless arms and pointed at him accusingly, anger in
their eyeless sockets. He fell back, choking fear gripping his throat. He stumbled and fell but the ground did not break his fall and all he saw was dark clouds swirling above him and wind rushing past.

  A female face formed in the clouds, dark green eyes like a forest in the rain looked directly at him, pale pink lips spoke words he could not hear and his wounded eye began to burn. Marakon felt as if something was very wrong with him but he didn’t know what.

  He looked down and found himself naked and cut and bleeding in a hundred places. He could not move but he could see and he looked out upon a plain of barren grassland covered in dead and decaying bodies; they stretched outwards from where he lay to as far as the hills on the horizon. The raucous caw of carrion birds filled his ears as they hopped upon and feasted on the rotting dead. The sight and smell made him retch.

  A black shape fluttered in the corner of his eyes and then sharp claws landed on his head. He looked up at the huge sleek form of the raven, the biggest bird in the field. He tried to move, to shake his head to be rid of the bird but he could not move his useless body, it was paralysed or broken or both. He screamed as it stabbed at his at white eye, trying to peck it out. The pain was like nothing he had felt before, it burned right down to the soles of his feet. Hot blood trickled down his face as it jabbed again and again. The pain made him senseless and he was only dimly aware as something hot and slippery slithered down his face.

  His eye was gone and the pain dulled but then he felt as if a great burden had been lifted, so great a burden that he began to cry in the joy of its release.

  The grip upon his arm released and he looked down through unshed tears into the clear hazel eyes of an old woman. His heart was pounding and cold sweat covered his face but he clung to that feeling of release.

  ‘We cannot do all the things we came to do in only one lifetime. Wrongs must be righted, the truth cannot hide,’ the old woman whispered. ‘A raven is always a messenger,’ she added, and then she became confused and looked about her as if she had lost something. She seemed weaker than before and her walking stick trembled under her weight.

  Marakon reached out to steady her, wondering what on earth had happened. All about them the market was in full swing again and though people gave them a wider berth no one was watching anymore. The guards walked upon their walls and chatted between themselves and the people went about their own business.

  ‘Mother!’ A woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the crowd.

  ‘Mother, there you are! I’ve been searching for you for ages,’ a woman in her late thirties with shoulder length chestnut hair and big brown eyes pushed through the crowd and came towards them. The old woman looked up squinting, vaguely recognising the voice.

  ‘Mother, where have you been? I have been looking for you everywhere!’ the brown-eyed woman gave Marakon an apologetic smile. ‘I am sorry, she gets a bit lost and confused because of all the people,’ she explained.

  Marakon smiled as much as he could, ‘It’s no problem, she seemed, uh, a little upset and unsteady,’ he added, wondering what to say. ‘I think she saw something with the Sight.’

  ‘Oh, oh dear,’ the younger woman said, ‘I do apologise, she was a priestess once and now she is older the Sight controls her more than she controls it.’

  The old woman blew through her lips in disgust, ‘I was a witch thereafter for much longer than I was priestess. Rotting, corrupt order that it is now,’ the old woman scoffed.

  Marakon laughed and the younger woman gave an exasperated smile.

  He gently let go of the woman as her daughter put a supportive arm round her. ‘Come now let us get some hot tea,’ she said. The old woman was muttering to herself as if she could not really hear.

  ‘The goddess bless you, both of you,’ Marakon added uncertainly, the brown-eyed woman looked up and smiled and then led her mother away.

  That evening sleep was a long time in coming for Marakon, shaken as he was after the old woman with the Sight had gripped his arm, coupled with the strange words of the young elf girl. When sleep did come it seemed his restless thoughts of the coming battle were determined to play themselves out in a half sleep.

  He stood in full armour on a high rocky place, surveying a rough grassy treeless valley when a mighty wind blew from behind him and he was cast in shadow. Terror froze the hairs on the back of his neck and he turned slowly to face the great gusts of warm air. His eyes travelled upwards, from the foot long shining black claws, up shining scales the colour of oil, to stare into the blood red eyes of a monstrous Dread Dragon. Its long snaking neck and horned head the size of four oxen was not ten feet from his own face.

  The stench of rotting flesh and sulphur leaked in brown stains from flared nostrils that were each the size of his head. On its back sat a black-iron clad Dromoorai with its three pointed helmet. A heavy claymore held easily in one gauntleted hand and in the other clanking chains that were the dragon’s reins.

  Instinctively Marakon held up his puny sword though it shook for his body trembled so much and his teeth chattered. Burning hot sweat soaked his body but he could not move, he was rooted to the ground in fear.

  The dragon opened its mouth and heaved. Marakon cried out and fell back as a wall of fire engulfed him. His own scream half awoke him, but the dream clung hard, not willing to let him escape, and slowly dragged him back under and away from the welcoming dim light of his tent in the real world.

  Back into the flames he was drawn but now a slender figure in leather armour and a crown of black feathers stood between him and the Dread Dragon and the flames could not reach him. He couldn’t see who it was for she had her back to him and the brightness of the fire was blinding. From her outstretched hand she held a magical shield which the flames could not penetrate and instead fell around them. Marakon fell back and an exhausted dreamless sleep overcame him.

  Chapter 16

  Calling The Wizards' Circle

  FREYDEL slumped wearily into his chair in his tower adjoined to Castle Elune. The Orb of Death refused his mind entry into it and now he was exhausted from trying. His head thumped dully through the fog that swamped his mind and his eyes burned as if he’d rubbed Atalanph chillies into them. Sleep would help but worry for Issa kept him from that too. He felt ethereal and exhausted but how could he rest when her life might depend upon his current actions.

  Talking with Cirosa had drained him, like it always did. But this time it had been particularly bad. It was as if she was not alone in her study and whatever else was there was sucking out the life of everything, even the Flow had been sluggish. He was glad to leave. It took most of the day to get back to Castle Elune and when he did he made sure he slipped unseen up into the thankful quiet of his tower where he’d managed to get a short much-needed nap. He got up from his chair and set about making some spiced apple tea, purely to do something constructive rather than glare at the unresponsive orb.

  With a steaming mug in his hand he felt a little better and set about working on the orb once more. Cautiously he touched its shining black surface and gasped. Where it had been freezing before, now it was burning hot and scalding. He let his hand drop. The Orb of Death, a chilling name that sent shivers down one’s spine as they were forced to momentarily think upon their own eventual demise. Freydel knew more about the orbs than any of the other Keepers and yet he knew only a fraction of their power and even less how to use it.

  If only the Ancients were still with us, we would at least know more.

  The orb gave him twice as much power as he could wield alone, but it was a destructive power, as befits the Orb of Death. It had been passed down to him from the wizards who lived on Celene over the ages. Celene the Sacred Isle, where the last light of sun leaves the Known World. It was the orb that heralded the rise of the coming of the dark moon of Zanufey, shining indigo blue not an hour before the moon first rose. A colour the orb had never shone before for usually the orb sucked all light into its blackness and swirled with tiny pricks of light, like
looking into a miniature galaxy filled with stars.

  ‘Do you remember when the blue moon of Zanufey rose and you shone the same colour?’ Freydel said to the orb. He often spoke to it, it was more than just a crystal ball and had an intelligence and consciousness all of its own. The orb remained unchanged and he got the feeling it was still busy, for want of a better word. ‘Do you remember Issa, Zanufey’s chosen? Well I need to know if she is all right.’

  Freydel sighed and sipped his tea, he felt like he was pleading with the orb. ‘For the sake of the goddess, am I your Keeper or not? At least let me know if Issa is alive!’ He slammed his mug down and sloshed hot tea over his hand.

  ‘Yargh, curse it!’ he hugged his burnt wet hand and then began to clear up the mess. All at once the orb burst into bright indigo light that filled the room with blue. Freydel dropped the cloth he was using and stared into the orb that had ceased doing whatever it had been doing and now responded.

  ‘Issa?’ Freydel stared closer and dragged his chair behind him to sit down. Within the orb a calm sea formed beneath a dark indigo sky. ‘It is dark and I can see no moon. The dark moon must have just set for the colour in the sky. This must be a vision from the past,’ he murmured as he looked. He saw her then, pale and weak and amongst the Wykiry.

  ‘She lives!’ he yelped and jumped up with a laugh. The vision changed and he jumped back towards the orb, all happiness gone from his face. ‘Maphraxie ships,’ he breathed, horror forming a knot in his stomach as he looked upon the dark lumbering shapes in the ocean. Interference came then and the images flickered nonsensically as light flared. His head began to spin and he had to look away. The orb began to calm once more and he saw her again, flying in the clutches of some great golden beast.

  ‘A dragon? but not a Dread Dragon, that can only be a good thing,’ he mused. The orb turned dark and he pondered what he had seen as he stroked his short beard. ‘A dragon… Maphraxies in The Lost Sea… I must call the Wizards’ Circle together at once.’